d'Aller Jusqu'au Bout
by PENGUINGIRL1210
Summary: FINISHED -Back to the turbid time of the Hundred Years' War, France recollects on one of the worst but best years of his life when Jeanne d'Arc was swept in and out of his life like a blink of an eye. But they shared so many memories and endured so many trials. And her mysterious presence and feelings still live on in him today... Full-length novel of short sections and three acts.
1. Chapter 1

*Author's note: This is a full-length novel and my first completed fanfiction (and really the one that's dearest to me). As such, I'm really proud and close to this book. I sincerely hope you will enjoy reading it. As a preliminary note, though, I have to caution that this book has a lot of heavy emotions in it (especially in part three), so please understand it's OK if you can't read all the way through. I understand. It may not be entirely as bad as I think, and some people say I'm over-exaggerating, but this book was emotionally-taxing on me to write, so I tend to be cautious about showing it to others. But I hope you enjoy it, for, through all the struggle and pain it too to write it, I love this book, and I'm always strangely smiling by the end.

I tried to re-create the spaces between the different "scenes" in the original formatting by putting breaks between the sections. I'm sorry if this is a little confusing at first, but I really believe it's better that way so it's easy to keep track of where you left off. I wish it kept the spaces in this version -_-

Also, there is a sort-of hidden extra story after the main story of the Hundred Years' War. So if you are wondering why part three is so strange or why Italy is randomly here, you'll understand when you reach the extra story, I promise XD

As for critique/CC, please feel free to enlighten me about any history I may have missed. I tried my best…but alas, it's not my forte XD

Please enjoy. And remember…life has its ups and downs, but we somehow find ourselves enjoying every step of the way.

 **Introduction**

le 30 mai 2014

As I look outside, the wind blows carefully, and flakes of white begin to descend softly from the sky. My sad reflection appears from inside the window, watching me carefully with melancholic and vapid eyes.

A rare sight here—snow is—especially this time of year. I expected it to rain, joining in my tears, as it sometimes does this sad, forlorn day. At those moments, I wonder whether I have control over the forces of nature that work together with me. I know I don't, but sometimes I like to pretend I can will the sky to be cheerful or sad when those moods fully construct me.

Mornings always instill in me my usual mood—paradoxical cheerfulness mixed with loneliness and melancholy, the feeling that washes over me as I take my usual walks among the flowers, wishing there were someone there with me to share in their joys. That mood returns to me now, weighing down my heart with its all-too familiar presence. Especially because I am alone now among the sleeping world as I look outside…

But today is no ordinary day, as the calendar and state of the world force me to remember. Feeling compelled by the fragile jewels, full of comforting light, slowly covering dear Paris in purity, I take up my old journal. And, leafing through its depressed, worn pages, I remember. I remember it all.

 **Act I:**

 **THE EARLY DAYS**

 **Early days…**

Those are the days I don't want to recall. I felt like just a hollow representation of myself. All the pain, desperation, and heartache immediately greets me but gradually consumes me again when I think of those years. That dumb England had me backed in a corner. Everywhere I looked, I saw desperation—pain, violence, disease, or rampages. It was literally inescapable, and my land took all the battering as I sat, huddling to myself and desperately hoping it would all be over. I've always sought flowers, the only source of joy, color, and hope in my darkest hours. Somehow the bright, gentle flowers and plants would still persevere, and their innocent tenacity inspired me.

But I still knew it was hopeless. Little by little, everything I loved was taken away. Everyone fought against each other, and I was in internal turmoil—psychological—at odds to discover who I really was. Maybe an inspiring being or a helpful Big Brother like I dreamed, but most likely, I was a failure and a constantly battered, lonely, and depressed soul.

The constant pain of more than 100 years of turmoil finally caught up with me by 1429. Sigh. I was sure those days would never end—at least not without my enslavement, surrender, or maybe even extinction. Do countries even die? In an immortal life, I feared for the impossible: fading away like ashes carried by the wind after a great fire.

If you are hoping for a short introduction about the 100 Years' War, I apologize, for there won't be one. The Years escalated quickly, spiraling out of control, compounding, compounding, and adding insult to injury. Just when I thought things couldn't possibly get any worse, something unspeakable would happen and wipe away another aspect of me as though erasing a slate. Another battle. The plague. Famine. Civil wars. It wouldn't end. Constantly, I feared what I was doing wrong and pleaded God to forgive me or to have mercy on me. My little world was in total chaos, and I, at its epicenter, was without hope. There were times I believed the whole world and all of Heaven were against me. It was all too complicated and horrible for words.

The funny thing is—well perhaps not funny but a little ironic—that this sort of thing probably wouldn't bother the other nations too much. "C'est la vie" and all… But, Big Brother has always been the sensitive country.

Inbetween those forlorn times, I sought egress, trying to escape from the seemingly ubiquitous depression that chained me down. Sometimes, I would walk to the sea to stare into its calming, everlasting blue…losing myself for hours on end just admiring the color and the vastness, my cares evaporating away. But then my tranquility would be interrupted once the reality that I was looking toward his house came to me. On the other side, however, I'd ponder what could possibly be past my small world here towards the west. I'd always been fascinated by the ocean and secretly desired to travel across the sea to seek what may be there. To reach those grand, hidden dreams.

"There must be so much more…" I imagined, holding on to the thought of forever. "Maybe in the grand scheme of things, I'm just a small portion of the meal. Maybe there are greater things that my sacrifice will bring about."

That's when, ironically, I found myself dreaming about peace. It was the first of many failed dreams. But peace has always meant so much to me. It's inspiring. That subtle feeling that washes over you when resting or walking among nature or staring at the rippling waters. A kind of innocent happiness without any worry or any second thoughts. A world where no joys will be questioned. Maybe ignorance is bliss.

I can recall only a few things that came to mind that fateful morning in 1429: the soft breeze from the west, the singing birds that were largely unnoticed back then, and myself. In retrospect, I grew a lot from the experience of the Never-Ending War (as Eyebrows and I jokingly call it). The pain molded me into something more interesting. Though, no one—other than me—truly realized the significance. Probably because it was mostly internal, and I've always been hesitant to share what I keep inside. Plus, I suppose some of the attributes were just enhanced. I've always been fearful—they later called me a coward. And I guess I am. I'm afraid to see those I love get hurt. But all I do to avoid such bad things ends up hurting the others or me even more. I can't run from my problems—they just keep finding me.

I said I noticed myself—let me explain. I spent the morning analyzing myself, pondering my personality and worth, optimistically as well as in the blurred view of depression. But I came to the conclusion that I wasn't really anyone special. All the other budding nations had something to brag about, but I didn't. Even as the years and centuries traveled, I found myself standing still. Unchanging. Cultural individuals would later flock to Paris, but that was never my doing, necessarily. Those who came and went, those who lived and conquered—I had nothing to do with their successes or failures. I was just a backdrop—something in a stage play. I wasn't even a minor character.

Besides, back then, none of the people ever saw me. The fact that my ideas never reached my countrymen's ears or that my expressions never met their eyes baffled me and, in some way, made me feel ostracized. I once asked England why no one sees me, and he mocked me, saying it was because I'm not interesting to begin with!

I believed him.

It was le 6 mars (March 6th). While wandering about, I heard rumors of a distinguished visitor who had come with envoys to meet with the Dauphin of Chinon, Charles. Curiosity led me to the castle, where a room full of people and royalty awaited me. But, among the dignitaries and commoners, I could find no dauphin. Bemused, I strained my eyes and weaved in and out of the crowd. Caught up in the middle of everything was the man in power, disguised in plain clothes—something that probably, even after a short amount of time, felt foreign to him. Humankind adapts rather quickly to change. Those simple days are cast aside and carried away…

A rather brash yell from outside drew my eyes to the door, and a young man (accompanied by six envoys) entered swiftly through the threshold. The boy in question held a strong air of confidence—not faltering at all to approach the hidden dauphin. In fact, it almost seemed he wasn't familiar with the ways of royalty. With stern but poised gait, the young person interested me, as the manners seemed almost equally disguised to reflect rigidness. It wasn't until the strong individual knelt and spoke that I realized it was a girl.

She had taken the appearance of a boy—clothing herself in a boy's riding uniform. And her light, fluffy, blonde hair had been deftly chopped short, perhaps with a dagger. But she resonated with so much confidence—so much so that I held on to her every word as each was delivered in absolute but gentle tone:

"My most eminent lord Dauphin, I have come, sent by God, to bring help to you and to the kingdom."

Charles stared a while in disbelief before disbanding the group and pulling her aside for conversation. With a sigh, I followed them to the adjacent room. After all, I assumed it was most probably something concerning me, and I secretly hoped it would be something to ease the crushing burden in my heart. Once they were in confidence, the lady was prepared to speak with Charles. Again, though her words dripped with confidence, I could tell she was either unfamiliar with regal ways or too restless about the subject to ease her sense of urgency.

"Your eminency," she began, "please listen to what I have to say. I am Jeanne from the village of Domrémy. The Lord God has sent me to help reclaim the kingdom and to see you crowned king."

The dauphin stuttered a little, "M-me? King?" Though honored by her words, he was too unsure of himself and too humble ever to comprehend why Heaven would ever choose him to lead. In a way, we were somewhat alike.

"Yes. It is also my duty to tell you that there is hope yet for France."

I admit, the sound of my name, oddly, made my heart skip a beat. Let alone its proximity to the word "hope." In a sense, I felt as though she were speaking directly to me.

"Oh?" Charles asked, curious.

"If we lead a group into Orléans, we shall be able to reclaim it and begin a conquest to save the kingdom."

"Orléans?" the man shuttered a bit.

Sigh. It was basically a death wish, but if it worked, it would definitely spawn a new era in the 100 Years' War. Not only that, but—she's right—I could make it out alive. It was a huge risk, though. The very thought reduced me to a paranoid, shaking fool.

"Yes, the Lord told me so, and I put all my faith in Him."

"He told you…how exactly?" Charles questioned cautiously.

The young lady drew a deep breath, afraid to let the answer escape from her heavy heart. "I am afraid I cannot say."

"Why?"

"It's…impossible to describe using words." She lowered her eyes shyly, later lifting them to the ceiling in recollection. "The words…come to me in a bright light that surrounds me, enveloping me in comfort. I know it is His message delivered to me by His angels—perhaps Saint Michael or even Saint Catherine. For a while now, He has been instructing me through these Voices…on how to save the Kingdom of France from ruin."

All at once, I was paralyzed—held captive in what felt to be a loving presence upon my shoulder. A tear found its way from my eye, and I almost took its message and burst into tears—but I stayed steadfast. It seemed impossible to me that He was actually listening to me this whole time…while I meandered aimlessly like a lost sheep. And so, she was the answer to my prayers?

Charles, however, was doubtful and paced the room, holding on to her absolute but skeptical claim. It wasn't impossible, for many of the people believed in the saints and the angels, and both the saints she mentioned seemed to coincide to her messages and her personal vows. Finally, he stopped and faced her. "Very well. I suppose we don't have much of a choice, do we? You sound very absolute in your words. I will follow your claim but only if you do something for me to prove you are indeed sent from God."

"But I found you among the others without having met you," the lady spoke up defiantly.

"Yes," he brushed off her contradiction, "but we must be sure. This is a dangerous mission you're proposing."

She heaved a sigh. "Yes, your Eminence."

With that said, they nodded in reverence, and he took his leave. Though she wore confidence earlier, Little Jeanne faltered before following, her pace hindered suddenly by a heavy countenance. After a moment of pondering and reflection to herself, she continued walking.

Suddenly, she stopped swiftly and held her breath as though her heart had just failed her. Trembling ever so slightly, her eyes slowly lifted up and stopped right into mine. Her green eyes were wide with surprise and shimmering with belief—echoing the majestic hues of the ocean's depths, from where none returned but where many dare to dream. I, too, was caught. For once, I felt her eyes were indeed locked upon mine and not on the elegant door behind me.

"But could it be that she can actually see me?" I pondered dubiously.

"You…" The word was barely a whisper. "Who are you?" She retained her wide look of surprise, which somehow transformed slightly into a gaze of reverence.

I didn't need to ask whether or not she could see me, for the answer had been provided. Instead, I composed myself and inquired shyly, "Would you believe me if I told you?"

Now her eyes were shimmering like ripples upon the water, and she was no longer quenched by nervous actions or thoughts. Poised, but still humbled, she awaited my response.

For some reason, I smiled softly. "I am the one you wish to save."

"I don't understand…" her words faded away.

"You can call me Big Brother France," I joked. I didn't deserve my nickname at that current state.

Once again, she was too shocked for words. "You are—? But…how can it be?"

What was the right answer to that question? Given the time to think about it, I don't think I can come up with a better explanation now. My existence is both complicated and confusing—maybe standing only as a metaphor or a poetic representation of nature. And how far does my power or influence reach? Am I Nature and is Nature me? Or am I just a spiritual guardian of this land named after me? Or a representation of society? I never considered myself a person, though I consider myself to be a Frenchman. Either way, I couldn't find the right words to relay my purpose of being—especially during a time that I felt my existence was all for naught and very, very limited.

And so, I sighed. "Who knows, really? I try to be the best I can be, but sometimes that is never enough. I wait and listen to their thoughts about me, but I can never interject or express my gratitude. I at once wouldn't exist without the people, but by those same people, I could be easily lost and forgotten…" Suddenly, the fog lifted from my wary heart, and all the sentiments I had kept hidden away escaped at once. Soaring into the air like birds that had longed forever to spread their wings again. But then I realized she was still standing there behind me as the words escaped my heart. I was filled with embarrassment. But…somewhere deep inside my soul, everything felt light and relieved. Why? Why did I start suddenly to confide my thoughts and worries to her? Maybe because no one could ever lend a sympathetic ear before?

With a swift breath, I stopped myself. "Well, there's no use in complaining; it will only make everyone sad."

"No." She knelt before me humbly. "It must be an awful burden that you bear. I see now that you are indeed telling the truth. I don't know how, but I understand."

"Understand?" The word was caught between a thought and an impassioned whisper.

"Monsieur France," She bowed her head, "I have been called to help deliver you from this awful burden of yours. Will you please put your faith in God and trust me with protecting your life?"

It was more difficult than holding back any other emotion—like a miniature war with myself—but I forced all my energy to quell the oncoming tears and to push them away; lock them into my heart.

"You may rise," I commanded politely.

With a curious expression, she did so and returned her gaze to my eyes.

"I…" No matter how hard I tried to speak, the words refused to come. In my heart, I felt there were no words or any kind of expression that could convey what I felt inside at that moment. Plus, I also feared the tears would escape me had I opened my mouth to speak. And so, I reached out my left hand and, with a loose grip, set her small, fragile hands around mine. This was a gesture that knights used to profess their formal loyalty; and so, I was in turn doing the same. It didn't even occur to me that I was a kind of spirit anymore. In her heart and her all-seeing eyes, I was an important being. And so, to me, I was a person of equal importance.

Then it was her turn to try to force away the touched tears.

The rest of the day was smooth but hectic. With new guests at the castle, all the servants were very busy running about and keeping an eye on each of them. I, not formally, decided that I was going to stay near Jeanne at all times from then on—especially because it would at least give me company, and I really had nothing better to do and nowhere else better to be. I was intrigued by her, also. I couldn't quite place why, but, in her presence, it comforted me to know I was a completely normal individual, though held in the reverence of her innocent, shining eyes. And so, I spent the rest of the day wandering the corridors of the castle, stepping aside for the servants and maids to pass, and overhearing the rumors and whispers that circulated so rapidly.

Though some may have been doubtful of Jeanne, her courage and determination inspired me, and somehow I knew I was in good hands. But the silently restless and sorely confused look upon her face as she was waited upon by dozens of assigned individuals amused me. She was indeed thrust suddenly into the world of royalty without a map or a book to lead her. There were times I could tell she desperately wanted to be alone, and I understood how she felt. Still, she took all attention and care with equanimity, and, as difficult as it was for her, she tried to be patient and to keep her determination-driven impetuous and adolescent thoughts to herself.

The castle, naturally, had a courtyard with beautiful gardens, so I escaped to the company of flowers for the rest of the afternoon into the evening. Flowers are my escape; their beauty and soothing fragrances always make me smile, and my routine walks always pave the way for daydreaming and reminiscing: two things of which either depart quickly, leaving me lonely, or dissipate softly, leaving me somewhat nostalgic and cheerful. Back then, there wasn't very much for me to remember, except I always longed in my darkest days for the carefree years of youth—back when Big Brother was just a small child of no real purpose. It was nice; though, in retrospect, it was lonely. The flowers have always been there for me, though: to hear my troubles, to comfort me when I'm sad, and to remind me that any adversity can be overcome with a little willpower and a little hope.

I don't know what it is about flowers. They just give me a reason to keep striving for life.

As the evening approached and a cool breeze swept in, little Jeanne met me outside as she tried to reassure her guardians that she would be fine on her own. She seemed reluctant to visit with me; her eyes were downcast and focused on the flowers while she wandered beside me. Looking back, she was more hesitant around me even though she carried herself with confidence and power around other men. They didn't intimidate her at all, but I suppose my being the embodiment of a country—especially the one she strove to save—moved her in some profound way I may never capture.

"Bonsoir! How are you enjoying life at the castle?" I spoke in my usual, cheerful manner.

Meekly, she commented, "It is very different than what I am used to, but I will get along fine."

I nodded, smiling. I didn't want to bother her with further questions. Instead, I resumed watching the flowers catch the evening breeze, and I lost myself in the relaxing aroma that soothes the soul.

"Um…" Now blushing and twitching slightly, she tried to keep the words inside, but she knew I wouldn't hear them if she did. "Are you really France—like you say?"

I knew she would have her doubts, just like the others had doubts about her and her claims of miracles. But, just as I believed in her, I felt she would believe me, too. Reassuringly, I patted her shoulder. "Just trust me."

Over the course of the next few days, Jeanne did nothing but complain—outwardly and inwardly. The nonchalant ticking away of hours tormented her, and she came to me more than once a day, threatening to set off on her own and fix this atrocity herself. Each time, I tried to assure her to be patient, but each time, she would leave in a huff and confine herself to her room again. She was determined, yes, but she was also impulsive. At the same time, she couldn't grasp why she was continually tested by the King and priests to prove her Divine claims; perhaps the lack of faith the others had disgusted her. She wished to wake to a day where everyone understood how she felt and followed in her headstrong footsteps. I wish I could have been the same. Each hour felt to me like another nail in my coffin.

But, finally, she was issued one last test to prove herself, and she respectfully but hesitantly responded to the issue. Charles sent her and her faithful envoys to Poitiers so that she may be seen by priests there. Curious, I accompanied them. The trek wasn't too long, and the journey went smoothly—so much that I found myself reminiscing most of the time and ignoring my surroundings and any presence of danger. There were moments we would stop for a break, and little Jeanne insisted I borrow her horse (or even ride with her), but I was so used to walking, and I didn't want to bother her with my presence. But, at that moment when she paid me heed and offered kindness, I saw a reflection of me in her eyes and her expression—as though it were me as a child offering the world to myself now. And I smiled, adoring the moment, and assured I was all right.

When night fell, Jeanne and the others would lay camp and rest for the night. Being whatever it is that I am, I don't require much sleep to regain energy like normal humans do, so I planted myself outside and guarded them as they dreamed. The nights were both painful and beautiful; as I waited for nothing in particular, I would look out at the shimmering stars and admire their special tranquility. I would lose myself in the silence. It seemed drearily unholy to me for anyone to attack in the night—the sweet calm and perfect innocence that it held always brought out my worst emotions. By that I mean the tears would always win. They say it is dangerous to spend long hours thinking, and it is. The thoughts would come, one by one, until they flooded me, never ceasing—ripping all secret depression from my heart and commanding me to cry until I couldn't anymore. Mathieu says that, symbolically, all his tears made up Niagara Falls. I wouldn't be surprised if mine made up the entire North Atlantic Ocean. Plus all my lakes and rivers, but those would be happy tears.

I had absolutely no doubts from the moment we arrived in Poitiers. In fact, her attitude was rubbing off on me, for I found myself thinking the same as she had been days before. The absolution in her words, mixed with her delightful youth and adorable, witty antics empowered me. In fact, I trusted her so much that I left that same morning to ponder nearby—letting her alone to her confidence. She didn't need Big Brother then to back her.

And so, I escaped to nature, walking as my thoughts flew away into the clear, blue sky. The moment itself wasn't dramatic, but the idea of what was occurring in the world while I nonchalantly walked and mused made the whole experience rather poignant. I daydreamed what could be happening now, I daydreamed what future this very day could bring, I daydreamed what I could be if her words were indeed received. I dreamed a lot.

I stopped beside a small creek, which was running with great pleasure and tenacity. As I took a seat upon a rock, my reflection appeared, blurred, in the ripples of the water. Even though I was still the same, I almost couldn't recognize my face. All the toil and burdens had beaten me down so much that it showed on every centimeter of me—especially in my eyes. I was rugged and raggedy-looking rather than the usual form of elegance I possess. I looked broken—an image that continues to haunt me today. But Jeanne had said she still saw the good in me and assured me that I still had beauty somewhere, a kind of hidden charm, and that alone made me smile again.

Suddenly, that same expression found me in my memory—that familiar look in her eyes—and the realization finally hit me. She wasn't just my hope; she was the embodiment of my hope—the courage and determination I cast aside and lost amid the pain and sorrow and heartache. She was me—the way I needed to be. Though, of course, we were different and definitely not the same person in any way, but the revelation still seemed true through the view of a country. She heeded my words, which were lost among the others, and acted as she was instructed to stand beside me. The voice I had lost. The spirit that was washed away with the tears. The courage that hid behind my fears and hesitation.

And so, in the midst of the questioning, in the midst of the plotting, in the midst of the senseless violence, I saw the miracle and cried.

Of course, she passed! Life itself would have ended if she had not, for her purpose had many folds to it. As promised, Charles granted her permission to go to Orléans—the word that dominated her vocabulary the past two and a half weeks. He bequeathed her with a charge and an army along with the horses she had received earlier. Plans were made for the future, and I stood still. Though she seemed to have some prior knowledge of the military system back then, she still whispered some questions to me while we were alone. Though confident, she was rather shy to admit she hid some doubts and uncertainties, which plagued her secretly. That was normal, for we had a long few months ahead of us.

In the off days while more waiting occurred (Everything seemed to move slowly back then; in retrospect, it was somewhat nice but mostly tedious), I brought it upon myself to keep a diary of the journey and our "adventures" so far. I'm not quite sure what possessed me to do so, but the comprehensive yet thoroughly emotional log became a staple for me—even so far as to help me cry without actually crying. I never thought words could be used in that way…

Our long-awaited journey to Orléans consisted of an extended stop at Tours. It had been a while since I had been to Tours, so I savored its quaintness a moment before remembering just how quickly these things can just fade away. I tried to stop myself from thinking such awful thoughts…but I could find nothing in my heart but sadness and pessimism. Jeanne was instructed to be fitted for battle, so she heeded the instructions. The others gathered to receive their armor, as well, so I followed her, waiting by the doorway of the smith's shop the whole time.

The glint of curiosity was still present in her eyes as she looked around the compact space of the shop, filled with all kinds of metal plates. But she didn't expect the armor's weight. From head to toe, she was covered in about 27kg of steel plates (That's about 60lb), which bared a lot of stress on her small frame. Oddly, the idea of her innocence made me smile, and seeing her in uniform made her seem more distinguished—almost like an equal to me. But, at the same time, all that weight was like the crushing burden suddenly placed upon her as she carried the weight of my small world on her shoulders. My heart sunk knowing there wasn't much I could do, but I promised myself I would try with all my might to stand beside her and be as courageous as I should be but most likely wasn't.

Additionally, she was given a woolen cloak to keep warm in case of any sudden chills. She draped the cape over her shoulders, stopping a moment to feel its dense, soft texture. Most importantly, of course, she received a standard she could hold so that we could find her amid the raging battlefield. The banner was simplistic but with a subtle elegance: the cloth was pure white with a picture of a dove holding a banner with the words: "de par le Roy du ciel" ("on behalf of the King of Heaven") etched upon it. She admired it as though it were art, but, at the same time, a heavy melancholy was cast in her eyes. This standard was to be her place-marker in the midst of battle, which both shrouded everything in madness and decimated everything in its path.

After a moment, she departed from the sadness and turned her innocent gaze toward me, though she kept looking away shyly as though hinting at something. It wasn't until she tried to shift her feet to walk that I realized her trouble. Even though the armor had hinges, it was still very difficult to move in if you weren't used to it.

"It's all right," I reassured, taking my place beside her. "You'll get used to it. But you can hold onto me if you need help at first."

Planting the banner to the ground, she leaned all her weight on it and used it like a walking stick. "I'll be fine," she commented. She wasn't fond of receiving help, though she would always offer help. As usual, her antics made me smile.

Slowly but steadily, she stepped into the light beyond the door, and a sense of reverence filled my heart a moment as her silhouette cast a shadow on me. She had such a presence—so magical. It filled me with such indescribable light. Seeing her there, poised with her face lifted toward the sky, was reminiscent of meditating on a picture of angels flying in all their Heavenly glory. She was definitely someone special.

Just before we had arrived to Tours, Jeanne had stepped into another vision by the light of the morning sun. It was both strange and miraculous to witness her internal realization. A miraculous light which only her eyes saw had suddenly covered her. With her determined gait halted, her countenance had become so peaceful and reflective. Transcendent. All sense of quiet or doubt dissipated with the wind, and the familiar confidence and poise was refreshed in her heart. To this day, I know I felt something then, too—something I cannot quite place. A kind of assurance or feeling that He was there somehow, watching over us as though a guardian like I was to her. Except I wasn't divine at all.

Absolutely, she called out and sent some of her servants to search the area by Sainte-Catherine-de-Fierbois to find a hidden sword of some sacred significance. She wasn't sure where exactly it was but that it was definitely in that place that hardly any of us knew existed. The idea intrigued me, and something like that sounded vaguely familiar to me, but I stayed beside her, joining in her anxious kind of anticipation.

Once she was clad in armor and both willing and afraid, the servants returned to her in Tours with the sword she had described from the properties of the vision. The blade was etched in a beautiful pattern, and the sword in each way seemed to reflect her. Glorious, beautiful—almost too shiny and pure to be used. Though she held it near her and was intrigued by its elegance and subtle danger, the hollow look of apprehension once again crept into her eyes. She stayed that way a while before resolutely abandoning the notion and sheathing the dagger, walking off to ponder once again.

Knowing I was never free from the heart of battle whenever anyone else (especially England) is involved, I equipped myself, too. The armor made my heart feel heavier than usual, and I felt caged—separated somehow from myself. It wasn't elegant at all. But still, I covered myself in the glinting iron and draped the heavy cloak over my shoulders. I knew I would have to find my lost morale; plus, my outfit conveyed my sympathy to Jeanne. She somehow liked seeing me on an equal level to her. She was even curious if my sword had etching, too, which it does, and she was fascinated, though the weapon was far too heavy for her. I held it for her so she could focus better on the designs.

Naturally, I didn't make my sword, for I wasn't very good at crafting anything. Oddly enough, I recall telling England (in a joking way) that I wished I had an elegant sword so that I could face him in battle like our armies. He retorted with the idea that a fancy weapon isn't a weapon at all but a decoration of some sort. But I insisted, of course, it would have to be pretty, for it would be symbolic of my ideals. With a huff, he left…but not before asking me to provide specific details for the etching—adding at the end that I wouldn't be able to make it, anyway and that my "style isn't as special as I think." And so, even now, I don't know who crafted this sword nor who decorated it with its iconic fleur-de-lis and numerous scrollwork; it was placed at my doorstep one day without any notice or any trace of a messenger. Sometimes I like to joke that dummy crafted his own demise.

As we waited for her brothers to arrive to help in our effort, my brave Jeanne was given two apprentice heralds as messengers. Though they were both apprentices, they worked well and were willing, and she was very lucky, for one messenger was seen as more than enough. As the old saying goes, "Don't shoot the messenger."

Once her brothers arrived, they were instructed and given armor, as well. They exchanged greetings, though the brothers seemed a bit uncertain of her, though they were all happy to see each other again. And, as they walked to equip themselves for battle, the poor girl watched them fade away as though she would never see them again. Worry colored every part of her expression, and my heart could sense all the pain, too. I wanted so badly to say something or do anything to reassure her…but no inspiration came to me. And so, I stood behind her and joined in her pain and anxiety. I worried about her too much.

Her parents came by as well to console her and to speak with her. They brought with them a chaplain from their town, and he was very happy to see her (and vice versa). As he stayed with us, he had another banner made for Jeannette to carry—one that depicted the crucifixion—which she was very happy to display and carry.

It was those simple times that softened my heart. I almost wished she could have been easy-going and happy like that all the time. But I had no idea what awaited us.

It always seemed to me that our travels unfolded very smoothly—almost as though we were guided by an angel who kept us all from harm. Soon we were halfway to Orléans, in a town called Blois. It was then we were able to enjoy some food and to take some for the humbling rest of the journey. It seems silly to say my food wasn't all entirely special back then. That was an art that later came to manifest from my troubling feelings.

While in Blois, we also received the grand shipment of weapons that were to accompany us and be our guards as we ventured forth. Crossbows, longbows, lances, swords, maces, cannons, halberds, poleaxes... Sigh. It was utterly depressing to see the confident look upon Jeanne's face wane into nothing as the horrors of battle swept before her eyes. It had bothered her all along, nibbling on her thoughts, but seeing it all before her made the reality sink in all the way, weighing down her sweet, innocent heart.

"It's not pretty, is it?" she finally mumbled once we were the last ones standing beside the pile of tools.

I sighed. "No, I suppose not…" I placed my hand on her shoulder.

Sadness lowered her head, and her poor heart fell into despair. It was always so painful to see her this way; I couldn't stand it because the pain crumpled my heart, too. And I wasn't really sure why.

"Please don't think about it too much, all right?" I tried to reassure her.

She nodded slightly, probably more of a shaking off the hurt or more of a reassurance for herself, but the answer was enough for me, too. And, confidently, I let her alone. She had the confidence in her heart. She was the one that kept us going.

I was the one that was terrified. Terrified of what awaited us beyond that horizon. Terrified of what fate may befall her. Terrified for her to see me in my horrible, most angry state. Terrified that she would break down and cry. But perhaps that's what she needed all along…and what I needed.

As the final stretch of the journey came into view, Jeanne gathered us all and proclaimed her views. Though her tone was bothered, she expressed all her concern so fully with that same proclamation of determination she always displayed that she moved our hearts to try. Powerfully, she spoke out against us and our bad habits we'd acquired from such a broken and chaos-ridden lifestyle. I was partly responsible, though I didn't (or couldn't) necessarily partake in such things often back then, and even if I did, a strange and painful guilt would spread across my chest, consuming me in numbing heartbreak. She wanted us to be envoys of the Lord, and to do that, we had to be well-behaved. Our words would be nice, our actions kind and thoughtful, and our desires pure. It was sweet of her.

It's somewhat silly to think of that now; I've come to stake politeness and etiquette at the top of my most important virtues, standing among justice and modesty and innocence and discipline. I suppose, in a way, she helped me realize the important of doing goodwill along with holding steadfast. Sigh… I wonder if there is anything for which I don't owe her…

In addition to our conduct lessons, she assembled the group for mass twice a day, calling the priests to stay with us and lead, and halted all our plans on religious holidays. She was always so devout and so dutiful in attending mass and keeping up on her prayers and confessions. And so, quite often, she would stop our camp at a local church to hold mass and to encourage confession. As time marched on with us, the constant discipline from Jeanne and her equals slowly resonated with everyone, and the discipline gradually made each of us shine.

Though I followed her enforcement of the rules, and though my faith was definitely strengthened by her mere existence (which was the whole reason for mine), my heart still felt heavy and full as though it were carrying lead. I don't know why confession scares me. It's not like anything bad happens when you confess your sins to God—He doesn't throw down fire on you or strike you with illness. In fact, those things only occur when you are actively disobeying Him. But I still found myself shaking when I wandered around, pretending I was lost in thought or something, eventually making myself known somewhere where nothing troubles me—a nearby garden, which seemed as miraculous as it was nature-kept.

I love those kinds of gardens: those kept meticulously by Nature. The flowers seem so much happier and so kind and thoughtful. Maybe it was the same with us—dear Jeanne was trying to turn us into nature-tended flowers rather than flowers that refused the natural tending and tried to keep themselves. With a long sigh, I sat among the flower patch and picked a white flower to hold to my heart—for comfort and serenity. Closing my eyes, I spoke aloud casually with Him. I wasn't sure what to say, but oddly, the words kept flowing naturally from my heart. I spoke of my doubts, my pain, the strength she gave me, and how grateful I was to have her… After, I felt so light that I could have floated away as I lay back among the wonderful aroma of flowers and stared into the never-ending sky… I felt so small. I knew I couldn't do this alone.

Le 27 Avril… That's when all the fun began. Of course, it wasn't fun, but our days became very eventful starting then. Nearing the town, we began a procession that followed us as we marched through all the wide gates. It was quite a solemn affair—especially for me. I was petrified of what was to come. I purposely made myself keep up with Jeanne's pace to force myself into feeling strong and hopeful.

Not a moment before Orléans, a messenger insisted we follow him to where his master, the Duke Dunois, is staying—the banks of the Loire river, where ships supposedly awaited. With confused looks, we followed the orders, and Jeanne swiftly swallowed her words, stubbornly leading us again with her sturdy banner of the crucifixion. Quite honestly, I wasn't sure what the whole purpose of the delay was—so many things were happening at once that I lost track of details and important information along with events in areas other than where I was currently standing. Sigh. Maybe it was my own fault. If I had been more knowledgeable, we would have never been wandering around or worrying in the dark. It could have also been partly the fault of the stress that gradually chipped away at my heart and mind. There were moments I would forget entirely something that just entered my mind. It was embarrassing; even then, everyone called me "old." Sigh. In the metaphorical representation of my life, I was just starting my teenage years—15 or thereabouts—which could either be a terrible thing or just another fact.

As soon as we arrived, the Duke Comte de Dunois awaited us, and the river was clear and empty and still—almost impossibly still. Jeanne, with composure, questioned him as to why he called her here, and he, with equal composure, admitted he believed it to be the best course of action. That's all it took. The strong girl became infuriated, her words like sparks from an otherwise gentle fire. The Duke, naturally, tried to reason with her, changing the subject to the matter of the delayed ships. With the presence of little wind, the ships full of help and supplies lingered on the water. Not only that, it seemed the wind wasn't in their favor; what little breeze there was blew against them, pushing the ships the opposite direction. He insisted this was a problem of the first priority, but I couldn't find a way to fix it other than to wait—something Jeanne doesn't like to do.

Though it seemed her anger had cooled down, the girl still insisted upon her beliefs and the feelings in her heart. Drawing a deep breath, she gradually reached for her sword.

"Let us duel," she proposed nonchalantly. "The tides will turn with us."

"But I did you no wrong, M'lady!" The duke was slightly offended, and he attempted to change her course of action; but, as we all know, it's impossible to change her mind.

Poised, she kept a dueling stance and waited for him to respond. Knowing no other option, the duke silently acquiesced, and the duel began. It was more of a friendly spar—or so I saw it—for Jeanne was unused to sword-fighting, anyway, besides the little spars she engaged in with her friends. So I was sure she wanted to get some practice. Naturally, I was on edge seeing her spar, for I couldn't bear the thought of her accidentally getting hurt or harming the Duke. Luckily, nothing bad occurred from the incident. In fact, there was only good.

As I observed, a wayward breeze swept across my face, caressing my face and whispering as though announcing, "Here I am." I couldn't believe it. The water rippled with waves, and I could imagine the sails of the boats further down the river unfurling and capturing the air's good gale and gliding the ships forward vigorously. I didn't will the wind to blow or the tides to turn. I can't even force it to rain at any given time. He was truly with us. It was then that I understood—it was then that I had no more doubts, if there were any remaining in the shadows, in my heart and mind, that Jeanne and I, under His guidance, alongside our fellow Frenchmen, would see this through to the end.

For a while, I just stood there and closed my eyes—captured in the moment, apart from the rest of the world. Musing on the moment and cherishing the tranquility that swept across the world. I was important after all.

The light faded softly over the horizon. The stars led us forward until, finally, we came upon the little town—our destination. Orléans. At last. It was an eerily calm affair. The solitude of the night cloaked us as we all, resolutely and quietly, marched peacefully into the town. It was a miracle we made it and arrived so undisturbed. It was as though the town itself knew we were coming and welcomed us, assuring we would be all right.

Once we had all crossed the threshold, a gentle light sparked in the distance at the end of the corridor of small buildings. One-by-one, more lights followed, dancing in the darkness like fireflies. They were torches—the people of Orléans; the poor inhabitants—my citizens—waiting to be rescued had come to greet us. To see us, to make sure we were indeed real. I could feel their hope, pride, and relief welling up in me—igniting my heart.

"I'm here. I have her now," I wanted to say. "I can finally help you."

They came in close; one man held the light to Jeanne's face, to illuminate her for all to see. The flame flickered and danced in her verdant eyes—contained. But because the torch was held so close, the fire wafted to her standard, the banner which proclaimed her location and presence to us all, and began to gnaw the fabric, singeing the colors bit-by-bit. At this, Jeanne did not flinch at all; taking her right hand, she patted the flames away, and returned her eyes to the people and requested, "Is there somewhere we can stay for the night?"

"It may be difficult. They are building blockades to the south of the river," a citizen informed.

But still, the townspeople were all so happy we were there that they kept quiet and offered us all one of the homes. Though the spaces were small, we were happy to have somewhere to sleep.

Comfortably hidden in one of the homes, they discussed the state of the situation and exchanged strategies. I say "they" because I stood back from my army, blocking the closed door, and listened and observed as the ideas bounced around the small, stuffy room. The only lights were candles, and the strain of the dark was taking a toll on my tired eyes. Besides, I was at a loss for ideas, and somehow, I knew I should leave it to them to lead the way as I stood beside them in case anything were to happen.

Surprisingly, Jeanne—like me—stayed quiet and reserved. It was as though she had her own sort of plan in mind for herself she knew she had to follow. Silent, determined, driven—she stood out like a statue among the others proclaiming wildly and aimlessly what to do.

I found very often, without my noticing, my gaze hovering towards her, and the sensation of the world slipping away—immediately, gradually…until there was nothing left but the two of us. It was a phenomenon I encountered very often during those three short years she graced my life. I couldn't understand it, but I also longed for the sensation to return. It was comforting…relaxing. Special. Something that became, to me, a kind of escape or consolation in this sad world and state of affairs that surrounded us, closing us in. We could let all that away—push it away—and just enjoy our time together. Each other—something I'd hoped and prayed we'd have forever.

But the first instance my thoughts slipped away, I was confused as to why. I didn't get it yet. But it didn't take me long to realize why I felt that way about her.

The morning came quickly. I no sooner dozed off that the sunrise hit my eyes. For a second or two, as my drowsiness faded away, it felt like a fully normal morning. Warm. Ordinary. But that notion quickly faded. Rubbing my eyes, I could hear the people's murmurs and the clinking of armor in the distance coming over the hill. Sigh. The time had come. I didn't really know what else to say except "I really hope this works."

There she stood, among the others. Some of the villagers were even joining the cause, and some of Jeanne's right-hand men were helping get them equipped. I drew a deep breath.

Taking my place beside her, I stood in silence. I didn't have to acknowledge my arrival or to greet her. Almost immediately, she turned to me—eyes steely as a sword, full of determination and resolution. But then the color and sharpness softened, turning almost to soft grass, as we locked eyes. It took me a moment to realize I was smiling—a short but nevertheless silly and out-of-place smile.

Turning back to her fellow people, her look of confidence fell away, and I could tell she was truly nervous. I could only imagine what thoughts were going through her mind or what sorts of combinations of emotions were slowing her. She was still young, after all, and a part of me wanted to tell her to stay—to preserve her innocence. But, with a smile, I knew she wouldn't listen to me. And so I did the only thing I could do: try to reassure her, as usual.

She nodded and declared, "It must be. I must have faith we will be fine." After a minute of reflection and quiet within her, she asked me, in a way that a child would normally ask of someone they look up to, "After this, would you come with me?"

"I'll always follow you."

The fierce, proud yells of battle echoed over the hills as they ran toward the unknown. Weapons in hand, guarded with armor, each man vowed to reclaim his heritage. But we weren't there. With the calm countryside passing us by—catching every now and then the refreshing scent of wild flowers—I followed dear Jeanne as she dashed, spryly and full of youth, to what seemed to be the edge of the horizon. She didn't falter at all, her gaze never shifting from the sky across from us.

"Where are we going?" I called, my yell reaching over the rush of the wind around me.

"To the towers!" she announced.

"By yourself?! That's dangerous!"

"I am not alone! You are with me!" she declared, taking my hand to lead me as I faltered.

Somehow, I was surprised at her words. But it was so reassuring knowing she cared…and that I could be there beside her to help.

"And the Lord is with me!"

And so, we continued our pace, together, as the tall stone towers came up through the plains at last.

The blockade. Past here flowed the river and stood structures and bloomed fields which were once my own. It seems like all just a daydream now—too distant to be reached—but someday, it will be mine again. Eyebrows' army had built a giant bridge, a gate, to keep watch and to keep us out. I just knew he were lurking atop that tower, cynically sipping his tea as he reveled in my short status I had, literally and metaphorically, as I stood there grasping at what it would be like to climb there to the top. I knew, of course, it would be a difficult climb, perhaps the most difficult in my life, for me to make it out of this.

With a loud and confident voice, she proclaimed to the tower to get the attention of one of the guards, who shouted back in displeasure.

"I am Jeanne from the village of Domrémy, the one known as The Maid," she continued without interruption, "and I wish to speak with your Sir William of Glasdale. We are to come to battle for Orléans, but we request your peaceful compromise before combat so that we might not have to shed any more blood on either side. The Lord commands you return to your own land and leave us the lands that belong to France."

The guard atop suddenly and brashly broke into a boisterous and haughty laugh, "You want us to give up?! That's impossible! And you will never see the King, either!"

But at the noise, Sir William appeared to hear the girl's plea, and the other man stepped down and left. "Madam," he started, "I am the Sir William to whom you wish to speak. We will not back away from battle, and I suggest you return to your town and keep away from our business. I don't know what sent you here, but false spirits or madness must be plaguing at your thoughts. But if it a battle you are planning, then your soldiers shall expect to meet with us and lose everything once and for all."

At this, she turned pale and silent. My heart sunk; resting my hand upon her shoulder, I could feel her shaking slightly. A sigh colored my breath. "Come on," I requested, turning away, "I don't like the way he talks to you."

As I turned to lead her away, immediately, a great shout stunned me.

"Oi! Hey there, small fry! Did you come to surrender at last?"

I growled a disgusted and exasperated sigh.

I don't need to elaborate on my "relationship" with the one they call England; you should know by now how much the very thought of him is the only true thing in this world that drives me to manic levels of anger and disgust.

"Oh, you think I'm here to give up, huh? Have you finally lost your mind, old man?" I yelled back.

"Who are you calling old, you old man?! You're a has-been!"

"What?!" I snapped.

Jeanne tugged at my arm and whispered, "Who is this man?" As I turned to answer her, I caught the shimmer in her eyes. "Is he like you?" she observed instinctually.

"Yes, unfortunately," I whispered back. "That's England."

"It is?" Her youthful curiosity was piqued. "May I speak to him?"

"No." I quipped. "I'll deal with him," I added gently.

As I went to yell back, he rudely interrupted me, "Are you even listening?!"

"Quiet, you!"

"I told you," he reiterated. "You've lost! You're history! Soon, they'll only see your name in history books!" he returned cynically.

I admit his taunting made me tremble. What if I really _did_ disappear into thin air? No remains to be found except my name in old records? It's happened before with other nations.

Catching my breath from the emotional blow, I tried to regain my composure when a gentle hand took my right wrist and pulled my arm aside.

"Let us go," she commanded with thoughtful and stern eyes. "I don't like the way he speaks to you."

Touched by her sentiments, I smiled softly and heeded her request. Hand-in-hand, we turned away and left it all behind—walking back to town leisurely in the tranquility of the cool spring day.

Upon our arrival, our forces had returned, and we all assembled. By the looks on their faces, they were displeased with us and were probably unsuccessful in their raid. I heaved a sigh, keeping close beside her.

"Where were you?" Louis de Coutes asked her in a slight tone of discipline.

"I delivered a message to the towers," she admitted with a mumble. "I didn't want us to continue our siege if they ceased and admitted a peaceful compromise."

"They'd never just give up! They're ruthless!" a fellow soldier yelled out.

"You're wasting your time," Fair Duke said sympathetically. "Just stay with the plan of action."

Placing a sympathetic hand on her shoulder, Fair Duke tried to reason with her. Duke Jean of Alençon was a close confidante of Jeanne who would often listen to her troubles, as well. He was captured and taken as a prisoner when he was 17, but he was released shortly after Jeanne visited Charles, and he joined her forces, acting as a sort of second "big brother" to her.

Jeanne lowered her head, disappointed. She was reluctant to admit that the only course was to initiate unholy battle—I could see the regret in her eyes and feel the weight in her heart. She closed her eyes for quite some time before standing up perfectly straight and pleading, with utmost poise and confidence, "Allow me to try one last time. I will send a final letter straightaway. If they deny this time, then we will ready our armies for battle."

And so, she and I retired to one of the homes, directing our energy to scribing the perfect letter. As was usual for the common people then, Jeanne could neither read nor write, so she relied on her messengers to dictate her messages, of which she sent many. She had already sent three letters requesting the same thing, so this would be the last. Unfortunately, her messengers were captured during the last siege, so she was left searching for answers.

"I'll write it for you," I offered.

A soft smile, full of hidden joy and amusement, climbed up her face. "Very well." With poised gait, she crossed her arms behind her back, speaking out each word with power and clarity. It amused me how she would dictate her messages—with such force as though she were acting, with great haste and a bit of tempered passion. Though she was illiterate, she spoke so fluidly and intelligently—as though each word came so naturally, perhaps from the mouth of God, Himself. It was something she enjoyed, I'm sure. And she always signed the messages as being from "The Maid," (La Pucelle) her nickname for herself so as to distinguish her from the many other people who shared her name.

Once the letter was finished to her liking, she folded it neatly into a narrow rectangle and tied a bit of ribbon around it so that it would stay compact. "There," she declared. "I will deliver it to the towers on crossbow."

"No messenger or carrier pigeon?" I questioned, concerned. It was odd to deliver a message so forwardly as she preferred; walking to the enemy is dangerous, after all.

"Will you come with me?" she requested.

With a smile, I replied, "You don't even need to ask."

With the setting sun as our backdrop that lovely spring night, we dashed carefreely, side-by-side, to our destination once again. My heart overflowed with vigor and youth, and I enjoyed whenever she would invite me along with her; it was like two kids having a grand adventure together, and I loved it. Crossbow in hand, she fired the message after letting forth a great shout, and the arrow struck its target, sticking out just inches from the open window and the Sir's surprised face. She was a little concerned by the proximity of the arrow, though.

Taking her hand, I shouted, "Let's go!" and ran off, with her keeping in time with me, and laughed aloud as the stuffy old men in the towers yelled back at us as though we were dumb kids pulling a prank.

Dinner commenced by our return, and I assisted in preparing the meal, as I often found myself doing instinctually. I had come to enjoy cooking for its simplicity and for the thin, emotionless reason that it needed to be done. Centuries later, my vague interest became my passion.

Nevertheless, my nonchalant attitude toward meal preparation didn't faze little Jeanne at all, for she always happened to comment to me, sweetly, that she enjoyed my cooking. A simple compliment I've kept with me all these years. She looked so content nibbling away at the food as though she were so refined. As we sat by each other, she sent me a look of bemusement in response to my out-of-place, love-struck expression. I didn't notice it at the time, but as I recall, I was entranced, watching her so intently with curiosity and dream-like amusement. Haha. How dumb of me… The day we spent together, enjoying the simple things and reveling in youth and joy, brought warmth and security to my feeble heart. In short, it was just really nice being with her. I was a dumb teenage boy then, after all; I had no idea what I was thinking half the time. Haha.

But our mealtime was interrupted with the shout of a messenger and a return message in response to the letter we had sent earlier by crossbow. As to be expected, she drew a deep breath, and her eyes widened in shock at the words printed. As the shock turned to grief and remorse, I stood beside her and drew the letter away from her wary hands as it was read to her. There were some things there I didn't want her to hear.

"Very well then," she muttered after a small moment. Realizing our combat was then the only option, she joined the others that same night to discuss the strategies once more and to get some well-deserved rest before the dawn broke.

Though we were cursed with what seemed to be days of ominous quiet and waiting, the time allowed us rest and reflection before the first and final grand battle, so it was actually quite the blessing in retrospect. But no one expected Jeanne to suddenly order us all to charge in to our grand siege with her trademarked courage and tenacity.

Sure, I joked about it the night before to myself, but I didn't actually believe she would. Though, of course, she assured me that was the right course of action which came to her the previous night. I knew by then never to doubt her, even though I was trembling all morning long in apprehension of the worst happening, so I just drew a deep breath, took her hand, and said, "I trust you." And somehow, that helped.

Once the sun broke past the horizon, we all gathered over the hill to begin our attack toward the towers. We knew the enemy would go at any and all lengths to keep us from advancing anywhere near their fortification, so we began our attack at a distance to weaken them so that we could advance, hopefully, to the stone tower later for a final battle which would finally liberate poor Orléans and, to extent, restore my hope. And so, there we stood, soldiers and archers and horses and citizens—Frenchmen—holding on to a single thread of hope that our tenacity and determination, under the hand of God, would finally prevail.

At the head of our organized group, little Jeanne looked out over the wide world, her eyes straining to see farther than the horizon, and breathed heavy, steady breaths. I could tell she was worried—not for us losing or being captured, but for the unavoidable prospect of losing her fellow comrades. She wanted us all to make it out alive, though we gathered in prayer before we left and she constantly assured them the promise of eternal life after all. The fear in her eyes and weight of her heart stopped her—even though all the confidence in the world was there beside us.

Clutching her standard so tightly, her little hand trembled in fear, and I tried to ease her troubles by taking her hand. "It's all right," I'd always say…though the tinge of melancholy was always evident in my tone, and I sympathized with her doubts and fears most of the time, the both of us knew, in the end, that it must be done. No matter the end result, we were to continue bravely—to the end. Together. All of us.

She nodded. Her eyes turned stern, looking forward, piercing the sky with determination. And so, declaring with a confident shout, she raised the banner high and proclaimed to all the world, "For the Kingdom of France and for the Lord Almighty our God!"

At this, the others joined in a grand jubilant shout and rushed ahead to the fields, coalescing at a singular point once the armies from the other side met us. Everyone was in the fields now, and the enemy forces were still coming from the other side—seemingly endless in numbers.

"They keep coming!" Jeanne noted, surprised, and I stood to her side in case she needed me. She wasn't fond of wearing her armor. With every opportunity she had, she'd cast it away for normal, light clothes. She hated being closed in and weighted down by its burdens. I knew how she felt. Though, that particular day, she chose to wear the armor anyway—for protection and safety—as she stood among the others, surveying and giving orders. For being wary of fighting and war, she bravely took to her position and was able to stay quite collected while the battle raged around us.

"Is there anything I can do?" I questioned her with a smile.

Bemused, she scanned my face before realizing something and shyly demanding, "Oh, yes. Could you perhaps stand at the front lines, Monsieur France?"

I chuckled a little. "What was that? You can order me and send me where you want, that's fine! Have more confidence!"

With the faintest smile, she drew out her stern, commanding side, declaring boldly and reaching out her hand, "To the front lines! Keep them from coming any closer!"

With a full smile, I heeded her orders, taking her sweet hand in mine and relaying, "Of course. I live to serve you, la Pucelle."

Turning away, I burst into a full sprint—a speed which took me straight to the front lines in hardly a second's time. Sword in hand, I could feel the confidence welling up in me like an otherworldly kind of power. Our determination, our heart—it fueled me, bringing me life and strength once again. Nothing could stop me. With precise skill and swift speed, I took down all the enemies that came my way—feeling unstoppable, indomitable. There were no questions on my mind anymore nor any doubts or feelings of distance. I had returned, and I wasn't going down that time.

And, in a sudden flash of insight, it was all over. Recovering, some allies kneeled to the ground to catch their strength while others rounded up the prisoners, gathering them and tying them up so they wouldn't cause any trouble. Standing strong in the solemn, red-stained fields, I reflected on the situation and—oddly—found myself at a loss of what to say. It worked. I was still standing. We were at a great advantage. There was hope. She was right. God must have found some sort of small favor with me, for He was at my side again. I could have cried tears of joy, but I knew there would be more battles ahead. The green fields beyond us, where I once stood, awaited us. But, finally, I could march forward with pride and some shred of dignity we had pried from beneath the cold ground. There was hope. I could breathe easily again.

Letting forth a sigh, I lowered my head; my shoulders relaxed. At last, I wasn't overcome with worry or fear for my life. My people. My little Jeanne… I owed them everything.

But as I turned to behold them, perhaps to fade away into the blueness of the sky and look down upon them with pride and a warm smile…

Sweet Jeanne fell to her knees and let forth a great wail—one that echoed all over the plains and hills, carrying over to the mountains—reaching straight into my heart so much that, metaphorically, her lament really did reverberate over all of France. We all stood silent, shocked, partly concerned or bemused, as she wailed, never once stopping the tears from flowing. Tears for all the friends we had lost. Tears for all the villagers, countrymen, and warriors who stood beside us. But, to our surprise, that wasn't all. Really, she cried for the humans. English as well as French—all humanity that had to suffer, die, and endure such madness…at what cost?

At the time, I didn't quite get what she meant. I really only sympathized because I hated to see her sad. Only falling through many years made me realize, empathetically, what that feeling truly was.

Then, there was nothing I could do. I hated to see her cry that way; my heart understood that the sight of so many brutal murders and suffering people was too much for her. But what could I do? And so my soul dissipated away, taking the form of the usual me—invisible to the world around me and something only seen by those who sought me. And, once again without any answers or any words of consolation or wisdom, I did the only thing I could do—the only thing I could ever do. I cared. I knelt before her and took her into my arms until she, with a burdened heart, couldn't cry anymore. And once we were the only ones left, I helped her up and led her back to camp. Fair Duke and a couple of her friends waited nearby to check on her, as well. We were all worried for Sweetie. Perhaps she didn't want us all to worry so much, though.

Feeling for her, I whispered, tussling her soft hair, "It's all right to cry. Don't worry."

She sniffled in reply, wiping her face with a scratchy cloth.

"If…you'd rather stay…" I voiced from my heart.

"I'll be fine," she assured, taking my hand.

My strong, brave girl. As the sun set in the distance, I could feel the warmth of the sun's last rays compelling us forward again. Refreshing our energy. Taking away our burdens, sharing the pain, so we could continue again anew. I told myself I shouldn't worry so much, but I always did.

With a smile, I held her again—though, for a different reason.

"We must continue without rest," she declared, making no room for contradiction.

"But we can't!" a fellow soldier shouted in protest.

"Lady Jeanne, I pray you stop being so impulsive!" Fair Duke yelled out once again.

"We must," she insisted again. "We will make way toward the towers. They will be weak, as well, and they may not expect us to come. We will make it. He…" she stopped herself. "I feel it is what the Lord wishes us to do."

They knew by then it was impossible to change her mind once it was set on something, so they all silently agreed and readied for rest that night.

As my brave warriors rested, I lost myself in the stars again that night…while keeping watch over the quiet world once again to make sure they all rested safely and soundly. I didn't want them to worry. I found myself at peace, daydreaming what it would be like tomorrow and all the possible outcomes. I lingered on how it would feel to, at last, rise again from the ground I had sunk into; to be reborn, like a garden coming again into full bloom after the long, harsh winter that forced it away to only dreaming and longing. With the return of a single flower, life will start anew. I would make it. I knew I would. With the soft brush of comforting solace at my shoulder, I sighed all my fears away and rested my head on the grass, below the twinkling stars, to build up my strength, too.

Once again, we gathered on the hilltop, but that time was the end. We were all fired up to finish what we had started—to reclaim the land we had once called our own. The time was near for the final chapter of this endless saga to begin.

Looking on to the fleet of enemies waiting for us—the people who would also suffer—Jeanne faltered again. My poor girl; the previous battle had scarred her so much, and the pain that she hid beneath her shining confidence had finally taken a toll. I took her hand again.

"Please," she pleaded loudly, not with the voice of the tiny commander, but with the strained tone of the kind girl from Domrémy who had always thought of others before herself, "There is one last chance I offer you. If we resolve this peacefully now, I will return the prisoners we took!"

Some of the soldiers around us gasped softly at her sudden proclamation.

"And we will no longer have to fight each other!" she continued, holding back tears.

I hated to see her that way.

The only response we received was the same that had always come: mocking and haughty laughter that was drowned out by the distance that separated us. But it always hurt her nonetheless.

Swallowing the heavy tears, she held herself back, almost falling to the ground, unable to stand from the crushing weight. Weakly but firmly, she kept raising the banner and plunging it to the ground as though hitting the earth continually in frustration. With a heavy sigh, I slid to her side and stood confidently behind her. Hiding myself, I spoke through her, taking her small hand and raising the standard for her, drawing out the determination of the others, who immediately flooded the plains, yelling out with loud shouts and running as quickly as they could.

Surprised, she whipped her head back over her right shoulder to see me; with a strong, protective, and comforting smile, I relayed my message silently. My eyes held no trace of doubt. Just when I was sure we'd stay there, staring into each other's eyes forever, she took off, escaping the spot she'd planted herself, and joined the others. I knew she'd be fine.

"Now it's my turn," I announced confidently to myself.

In a flash, I darted to the clearing before the stone tower; yelling out, I readied myself for the combat I had been so looking forward to. It was time at last for my return and my vengeance. To settle the score.

At my arrival, Dummy England called for his weapon and leaped from the tower, landing before me. He acted as though he were a privileged, spoiled royal and I the lowly pauper acting too confident in my skills (like in Shakespeare or something; he likes those books).

"So it's come to this again," he commented, unamused.

I only smiled and readied my sword.

"What's with that over-confident smile?"

"You've lost this time, old man. I've come to reclaim what's mine! I can't lose now—I'm over-powered!"

"Ha. In your dreams," he replied, bringing up his guard. "But all right. I'll amuse you if you're so serious."

For probably the first and only time in my life, I made the first strike. The ring of the swords clashing screamed all over the hills—constant ringing back and forth between dodges and thrusts. It was invigorating; finally, I could hold my own and win again. I have to admit there's a kind of thrill that comes with holding power and dominance, something that left me after those days of constant striving and the days I was once an empire. It all seems silly and almost inhumane now…but then, it was glorious. In a world where I was constantly beaten down, I rose above the rest, gallantly, with my pride and heart directing my course.

I had him on the ropes; he hadn't hit me once, but I had made quite a few scratches—dents in the armor, that persistent and gnawing ego of his.

Jumping back, he re-readied his stance, commenting, "Ha. I admit that I underestimated you earlier—but now I realize that that battle was only beginner's luck."

"Beginner's luck? What do you mean?" I questioned, parrying his attacks.

"That kid you're so insistent about! No kid could ever lead an army about like that! And you're so sure about her, too—you must really be desperate!"

"How dare you," was the first response that came to my mind—that rang in my heart louder than the resounding clashes of the swords. The words and his tone together disgusted me. Without any remorse, I acted out of impulse, drawing the sword dangerously close to his stupid face—I wanted so badly to cut that dumb smirk away, but I contained myself…instead drawing a permanent mark upon his dumb face. A short and simple slice but a wound that mirrored the pain he drove into my heart. Silently, I hoped that cut would remain forever.

"Don't you ever talk about her like that," I growled.

With a hurt and confused look, he kept his hand to his cheek, possibly trying to quell the pain or to hide the fact that I had somehow gotten past his guard. "Sheesh. You're no fun anymore," he said, almost disappointed in me.

As Dummy and I duked it out at full strength, the forces had begun to fall back, and my side had come together in attempt to climb the tower to make a siege. As they banded together with ladders, I glanced over occasionally to check on the progress. The staircases, seemingly reaching toward the heavens, stayed in my peripheral vision the entire time I continued sword-fighting. And, looking back, it's symbolic how ominously they never left my eyes. Finally, we were making good progress in this battle; Jeanne willingly assisted her comrades in the climb, and she jumped on to one of the ladders, taking her place at the head.

But, in response to our advance, the enemy stood ready with archers to stop any forward assault to the waiting officials in the stone structure. It was amusing how England would turn occasionally from our bout and yell out orders, commanding his legion of warriors. I, however, stood by second to Jeanne and my fellow countrymen. I don't always shy back from the affairs of the land I watch over—but sometimes, I think it's a little fun to observe.

With victory in sight, they scaled the ladders tenaciously, dodging or enduring the sting of arrows that flew past them. Especially Jeanne; she was determined to go forward. Perhaps too much so.

It all happened so fast; but it was purely Divine intervention that I caught it in time. She scaled the steps, as though she were flying and ascending into the great sky, making her way toward her destination—eyes intent with focus. On her way, she looked back to those behind her, and her foot slipped for a mere second to catch her off-balance. Retaining her equilibrium, she took a second or two to refocus, and by the time she turned back to scale the heights… An arrow, devilishly aimed toward her, took its opportunity to hit and to knock her off guard—and, upon sudden impact, off the ladder.

She didn't want to wear the full armor that time. She wanted to be free. Oh, how my heart ached. I wished I could have gone back and changed all that.

Screaming her name, a yell that rang over the world, I threw aside my sword, and everything disappeared. The land rushed by—time almost stopping—and nothing remained but the two of us. Thoughts darted in and out; worries gripping me and forcing tears from my aching heart. As I stopped beside the ladder, she fell into my arms—just in time—and I forced away the worries and the tears to assess the situation.

The arrow had pierced her right shoulder, and she cringed in pain, grasping her shoulder with her left hand. Her face was stark pale, covered in tears, as she struggled to breathe. I panicked. Not wasting any more time, I sprinted away as quickly as I could with her in my arms, passing by everyone. Some comrades by the ladders followed me, and the kind boy she called Fair Duke called out to me to come with him to the clinic nearby—that's where I was headed, of course, but I followed. The world blurring around us, my heart fell apart gradually into small chunks, the pain and terror shocking my breath.

"M…Monsieur…France…" Poor Jeanne strained, calling to me softly, her eyes clamped shut.

"Jeanne," I whispered back through tears.

"It hurts," she said, pushing away her shock ever so slightly.

Somehow, seeing her try to be brave made me feel strong and assured my broken heart she'll pull through. "It's fine. I'm taking you back. The nurses will help you."

With a relieved exhale, she relaxed in my arms, and her breathing became more steady.

My brave girl. By then, we reached the nurses, and I pushed past those in waiting and the others in care outside to bring her inside the shack to rest. Immediately, they prepped and readied to treat her. Medicine and medical treatment back then was much different than it is now in our privileged time. That said, she was still panicked and in shock, and I stayed back so the nurses could help her. But as I shied away, my heart fell, sinking further into my chest, and the tears returned. My heart had been ripped in half. Seeing her like this was too much for me to bear. Confining myself to the seat by the door, I tried to hide my tears, but that was an impossible feat. The pain and sadness was so great that my poor heart crumbled and sank; my throat constricted as I sobbed, and I thought for sure I was going to die (or faint in my case) from lack of air. I was devastated.

"It can't end this way," I kept telling myself. "It can't. She needs to be OK."

While her shoulder was being patched and held to stop the bleeding, some of her fellow comrades came to her side, asking if they could help in any way. The custom, on occasion, was to resort to superstition or to sorcery because it was believed that magic could help healing. But, of course, Jeanne didn't believe in superstition and instead suggested roughly through the pain that they offer prayers and thanks to the Lord to watch over her and to help them all and to call a priest to come. I prayed, as well. With all my heart. I wanted her to be all right; she had to be all right.

When all the tears had shed and dried, when the nurses' work had finished and the quiet took over our small world, Jeanne woke from her short nap to a much better state. Sweetie. I was relieved, yes, but I was reminded just how fragile she is—just like everyone else. Mortal. I told myself I'd have to protect her even more now—never to leave her side ever again.

A soft sigh floated in the room, and the sound of shuffling snapped me out of my pondering trance.

"Wait! You can't go now! Stay and rest!" I called out to her, my call echoed verbatim by the nearby nurse, who helped her back into bed.

"No," she muttered. "I'm healed now, right? I'll be fine."

"But…you should rest," I requested compassionately.

"I must return," she commanded, her presence and words diminished by her quiet, hurt state. "As long as I am able to move, I can continue to fight. I will return." Still clenching her shoulder, she passed me by, venturing slowly but steadily to the door—to the outside world. Once bathed in the sunlight, she stood up perfectly straight, casting aside the tension and doubts.

Again, she was so ethereal in the sunlight's glow. As though the light of Heaven rejuvenated her—made her invincible. Magical. I couldn't help but smile and stand at her side once again, offering to accompany her on her way.

And so, we returned to the fight. Enveloped in my own worries, I had no idea what happened while I was by her side, so I took a minute to assess the situation from afar. Of course, it had become hard to determine any sort of progress or relapse in such chaos, but somehow my heart's intuition always proved a better indication than anything for me, so I trusted my heart. With a light weight, it said we'd be fine.

As we marched back, I faltered, worrying for her yet again. I hated seeing her hurt and writhe in pain like that. I wanted more than anything to keep her away and to protect her. But, as always, she was so headstrong and so confident. Still though, with a wary smile on the verge of tears, I asked her, "Are you sure you want to return?"

"It is what the Lord would have me do," she proclaimed.

"Then I will stay by your side to protect you." I assured.

Bemused at the kind tone in my voice, she examined me with such an innocent and curious face—the youthful look that often graced her visage that reminded me just how young she was. "But…you have other matters. And I shall be fine this time on my own. I don't want you to feel you need to protect me at all times, Monsieur France."

"It's not that I need to but that I want to."

Searching my eyes, she found my words to be true, and the gentlest hint of a smile surfaced upon her pure face. "Just this time…I'll be all right. For the times to come, you may act as you wish."

"All right. I promise."

Then back at the battlefield's outskirts with the others, Fair Duke came by to check on Jeanne. He also cared for her, somewhat like an older brother, and I could tell he waited for the news, as well.

"Lady Jeanne, you're back! Shouldn't you rest?" he said, alarmed.

"I am fine, I assure you," she returned with her usual poise. "What is the situation?"

"We are still trying to scale the walls. They are persistent in driving us back," he summarized well.

Before he could continue, Jeanne jumped in, hearing all she had to to know where she was needed. "All right. I will return to assist them. Please stay here to oversee for me." And, with that, she darted off yet again—with that same vigor and youth she always exemplified. It was as though she had never been backed down.

With a smile, I knew she'd be all right, and I returned to continue my bout with that eyebrows idiot, who was waiting, bored, for me to return.

"What, is it your tea time already?" I joked, as he was partaking of the quiet and a sip of something while waiting. Only he would stop and drink tea in the middle of a heated battle. Honestly. "I hope I'm not interrupting," I added sarcastically, drawing my sword again.

"Oh, please. I was just waiting for you. What did you do—take a vacation or something?" he returned with equal facetiousness as he abandoned his relaxation time.

"I had to make sure she was all right," I commented matter-of-factly.

Without any more demeaning comments, he just sighed and waited for me to continue the match. Which I did.

Meanwhile, Jeannette had returned to the ladders with the others, requesting that she go forward again. Followed by her comrades, they all made the ascent once again, believing then was the time that success would come their way.

But something else unexpected loomed over the horizon. The fortifications were near the river that ran through the land, and it acted as a sort of bridge as well as a wall or a kind of stationed castle. That is to say that the water ran around and under the wall in such a way that the ships for supplies and men could come and go easily. That's partly the reason why we needed to take it in the first place.

As she made the climb once again, shouts impeded her course and confused her. Suddenly, the others jumped and ran from the ladders and those in the tower screamed in fright, taking to hiding places or fleeing into the river.

Bemused, she searched the area for answers…when, suddenly, the answer found her. A ship, on its way towards the tower, raged in an inferno—a literal moving beast of flames—and didn't stop until it crashed into the structure, rendering it useless and scaring all those around to panic.

"The ships," she whispered, remembering those ones from before. Taking her cue, she leapt from the ladder, caring not if the distance between her and the ground was too great, and she ran back, getting at a good distance, and just stood there—completely stupefied.

England, hearing the shouts, turned away from our battle, and I had noticed it before he did, so I stopped in complete horror before he ran off, yelling for everyone to retreat. Which, of course, they already were in the middle of doing. With my job done, I immediately ran to check on Jeanne, who had planted herself close to where I had stood, and I stayed beside her. Lost in the scene, staring with wide, blank eyes, she began to tremble and shake. Her eyes poured forth warm, pained tears. She was terrified, yet she couldn't look away.

"Run! Retreat!" she pleaded, as though she were watching it on film and she were calling out to those she loved as though she could do nothing to help them. "Please, go while you can!"

The English interpreted her heartfelt shouts as brash commands and began to panic that she had cursed them with some sort of black magic or spell—adding to the madness that was already unfolding before us.

And that was it. She had had enough. Whether she noticed I was there or not, she suddenly whipped around and pushed herself into my arms, sobbing immensely and shaking with pure terror. My poor sweetie. All this was too much for her little heart to bear. Seeing them all fade away like that…it was too much. She always wished we could be saved. Always wished we wouldn't have to fight like this so we could all live. Always wished it wouldn't have to be so violent and dreadful of an experience.

And all I could ever do was hold her. I had no words of comfort, had no words of wisdom or assurance. Had no explanation as to why it was this way. Why it had to be this way.

"Why…?" Her words came softly, strained, through the tears she cried into me. "My God. Lord God, why? Why?"

Holding her closer, I stayed with her until her tears ceased—ever slightly—and, with the OK from Fair Duke, I brought her back to the station where she could rest while the others cleaned up and took care of what they had to do. Whatever there was left to do, I suppose.

But we knew it still wasn't over. They wouldn't give up that easily. England Eyebrows would never give up so easily in any battle with me—what with that indestructible grudge we mutually hold. And so we rested that night and prepared for the worst to come the following day.

The next day, we arrived to a strange sort of stalemate. Gathered, the English stood together—stern like a wall—and refused to act or to move. And so we mirrored them, partaking in a sort of staring contest for the longest time. It was so surreal. I didn't know what to think. Why did they gather like this? Were they planning something? Guarding something? They certainly weren't protesting or anything like that—the olden times were different than now. I was worried—especially because England was among them at the head, overseeing their so-called "operation."

Occasionally, Jeanne glanced to me with a look of concern, as though she feared they would suddenly ambush us or launch a surprise attack. And I didn't have any answers for her.

After the staredown, England glanced behind his shoulder—maybe to check on whatever it was they were doing—and huffed a quiet "Let's go" which prompted the single-file and final release. They left.

Jeanne sighed a breath of relief, and I took her in my arms—overjoyed. Finally! We had done it! Everything she said was right and, with our persistence and her vision, we had revived Orléans! I had hope, after all. Hope for then, today, and the future. At that moment—that singular moment—my troubles and worries were left behind for good.

To celebrate our victory, we all came together that night and enjoyed some company and wine together. It was nice finally to let all our cares fly away to the sky and to forget the pain and tragedy that once was. The villagers joined, as well, admiring their town and the land surrounding that they would once again be able to claim as their own. The children were content to play once again, and everything had transformed to peace, colored by the warm sunset framed against the clear, blue sky.

Relaxing, taking in the evening, I reflected upon everything and sighed a much-needed sigh of relief. We'd finally made it. The great weight was lifted from my heart, and I could finally breathe easily again, watching as the worries faded away into the sunset. But, at the same time, I knew I wasn't out of the woods just yet. It wouldn't be that easy to undo the pain of the previous fifty or so years.

"Why are you out here, Monsieur France?" Little Jeanne came by to keep me company and to wonder where I was.

"Oh, I'm just pondering is all. This is your victory, after all. You should enjoy it with your friends."

"It is not my doing entirely. The Lord Himself delivered us and granted us victory. And I was assisted by the others."

I chuckled. "You're so modest." I took another sip of wine, holding on to the warm taste. A sigh left me, and the company of the burgundy elixir started to bring out my emotions again. "I don't mind being alone sometimes. Don't worry about me, all right?"

Lowering her eyes, she questioned softly, "Is it because I'm the only one that can see you? Am I really the only one?"

"Well…" I leaned back, lifting my face to the placid sky. "It all depends. It's been a while since I've been noticed, though. Maybe because there are times I just want to be alone. Or maybe because I lost all faith and confidence in myself… Everything is still such a mystery to me."

"Would you ever like to be visible and in command like England is?"

I sighed, hiding a snide chuckle. "Well, our styles are certainly different. But I suppose I wouldn't mind having the company. But I'm fine the way I am now. I shouldn't complain so much." Sitting up straight again, I stared vapidly into the light's reflection glinting off the wine's deep maroon surface.

"I see."

"Besides," I reassure with a soft smile, "I'm not lonely because I have you."

She nodded in response. Ruffling her hair, I instructed her to go have fun, and I remained—alone as usual—to witness the sun set magnificently on that special day that began the rest of forever.

But it was time for us to get going again—to continue our journey and thusly our conquest we had planned. As we were packed up and about to leave, the villagers offered us (and especially Jeanne) gifts, though Jeannette was humble and assured she couldn't possibly accept their gifts. Though she cherished their thoughtfulness and assured the Lord would bless them. And so, with her signal, we continued our journey onward. There was still so much to do. So much she had left to help me with.

We left on May 9th to go to Loches then to Reims and eventually back around the Loire, a place close to both our hearts that we called home. All that took the entirety of May and the days going into June, though it all seemed to pass by at the blink of an eye for me. As we left the village, I could tell she was still hurt about the previous battles (poor sweetie), and I attempted to stay cheerful to bring some joy back to her verdant eyes—a soft but simple act of kindness that I believe she cherished as we traveled to Loches. I preferred to see her smile and see her jump and spring with youth.

It took us two days to arrive to Loches, and by that time, I fully believed she had recovered from the earlier incident. I felt for her; I knew it was so hard for her to move on, but she realized she had to follow her call to continue our fight. Now that we had victory at Orléans, we were at a big strategical advantage. Plus, our morale, lead by Jeanne's vision and courage, was the best it could be.

That's how it was. A league of few against the armies of many—battling against all odds with the courage and determination of the world and the greatest faith in God. With her at my side, I had finally come out of my rut and had begun to rise again—rise up and take my rightful place as the one and only Kingdom of France. For once, I was proud to be who I am… I was grateful and changed. And it was all because of her. He sent her to me—my miracle girl. I was so proud. So happy.

Battle after battle, we always emerged victorious. The broken pieces of what once was were beginning to form again, and I could finally distinguish my own face and, in a way, who I was meant to be. With each victory, I began to realize who I was as I grew to understand myself in this uncertain world. Emotionally… physically... mentally… perhaps more emotionally than anything else.

There was a lot to think about then—where I was going, what I would have to do in later days, where all these events would eventually end up… And though we were stealing victories and enjoying happy moments, we were still at war, and that continued to bother her. I tried my best to be there for her—I believed. In the craziest time of my life, nestled between mixed emotions and brought up from the depths of despair, I was still young and trying to discover meaning in the world. After all, I was technically a teenager then, too. And she was my first love.

Love—first love in its silliest and purest form especially—bathes everything in its glow and makes the world look more beautiful. It was strange that way; even when everything was falling apart, and the earth itself was crumbling, it was all still so beautiful. I was so happy to be alive even though my heart was in pain. Because, in small ways and silent ways, we shared the pain and marched onward, hand-in-hand, through it all together. It was nice…just being there with her. I miss her so much.

And that is what occupied my mind the most. It was around those moments we blazed through the towns, driving out the enemy and tending to our fellow countrymen that I, oddly enough, began to understand why my goofy, teenage boy heart fluttered so much around her. She was special. Though I couldn't quite place why (being then only a novice Romantic without any place in the world just yet) exactly she piqued my interest so and what sort of words I could use to describe what I was feeling. Poetry? Song? Is there truly anything that isn't ephemeral or majestic that can truly give life to what I feel and felt? Not having the command of words I wished I might have had, I settled for the simple affirmation that I often repeated to myself at night while pondering and musing to the moon and the night full of stars—"She brings meaning to my life. I'd be nothing without her, and I love to see her smile. Why I'm not exactly sure… but I know she was made just for me, and that makes me feel special."

After the conquest at Loches, we changed our course for the Loire, and our little future king, Charles, became increasingly impatient and insistent upon his being crowned, curious to when the day will come. Though in a humble and oddly inquisitive sort of fashion.

"W-when will I be crowned king—as you said? We haven't made much progress with that yet," he would say, reminding Jeanne of their first encounter and one of the first things she told him.

"I assure you we will make the journey to Reims once we take back the Loire," she responded, keeping her cool and refusing to revert to any sort of condescending or disciplinary tone with him.

As for me, I was eager to return to the Loire River, for the river and the land surrounding were and always will be a special place that resonates with my heart and heritage. It's like the home within my home, somewhere sacred where my heart remains always. A sort of living memory that returns whenever I call for it that reappears so simply like singing an old song that slept within me for years. I'll always have the Loire to call home—even if only in my dreams.

Curiously, Jeanne also held a soft spot for the place, spending most of her time there—a determination that ruled her heart even more than usual, which caused some conflicts with the future king. Well, it's not like they hadn't argued and butted heads before over strategies and ideas, but Jeanne and Charles' arguments became more frequent and heated around this time, oddly enough. I never believed the king-to-be to have such passionate outbreaks, though it was true he was a little insecure, and maybe the thought of gaining authority went to his head a little—especially because Jeanne seemed to have more authority than he did…something which bothered him…and a few outsiders.

And so, she would continue to join me on my evening walks, often saying nothing about her troubles or the state of the world and instead allowing the warmth and beauty of Creation to wash over her, wiping all her troubles and aches away. My girl. She was undoubtedly growing up; she was 17 (or thereabouts) at the time, and the weights and trials of our journeys coupled with her increasing, unwavering faith in God helped her to mature finely. I was surprised (almost pleasantly, though a part of me always wished for her innocence to remain) to see her suddenly so determined and strong again—even after all the battles—as we marched toward the Loire and even when she and I went for our relaxing walks. There was no more doubt or pain from what surfaced; her eyes were clear and full—as defined as the full moon shining out in the darkened sky.

"You seem rather confident now. You don't have any worries anymore?" I asked as we walked.

"Everything is going just as the Lord instructed it would. So I have nothing to fear." Her statement was absolute—punctual. But, around me, her stance suddenly dropped; her eyes wavered. The determined face of complete composure disintegrated. "Except…" she voiced softly, slowing her pace until she stopped in the grass.

"What is it?"

After a moment of quiet, she relayed her secret to me. "There…is only one thing that concerns me."

"Yes? You can tell me. I'm listening."

The wind whistled over the plains, dying down over the hills as though they felt compelled to turn quiet and hushed—almost foreboding—as the word was to come from her. "Treachery." The word was so harsh beneath the matter-of-fact tone in which it was said. It sounded like the distant clash of swords hovering through the quiet, rolling plains. "I'm afraid of being betrayed."

"I'd never betray you," I assured, feeling oddly hurt inside.

"I know you wouldn't, M. France. But…it's just an odd feeling I have." Reverently, she hung her head as though to apologize for her out-of-place but nevertheless clairvoyant feelings she'd often get. I understood these sensations and cues would mean a lot to her and often weigh a lot on her mind, so I tried to be as sympathetic as I could—even when I could find no sign or clue of her worries anywhere outside of thoughts and notions.

"You'll be fine," I reinstated, putting an arm around her shoulders. "I'll protect you."

And that wasn't just a bland statement to cover up worries temporarily—I swore myself to that statement. I refused for anything to hurt her ever again. Because, while she may have had recovered from the battle at Orléans, my heart still felt crushed seeing her hurt that way. I never wanted her to feel pain ever again…

Physical or emotional pain.

We arrived at last to the Loire, which was then the name only for the grand river which cuts through most of the region and a large majority of the land; the river which later became the foundation of a region. Rivers have always been an important staple for civilizations, and so it would be essential to get some of it back. That meant we were to march through the line of villages along the route and take back each town—Targeau, Meung, Beaugency, Patay… But the battle at Targeau was the most (let's just say) interesting of them.

We were doing well at driving the enemy armies back—even though their numbers were more than twice the size of our forces. To make up for the number gap, I stood at the head of the lines, doing my best. With all my resolve and determination I had mustered through our days of conquest, I had plenty of strength to spare. That battle, from the start, wasn't the prettiest in the world, though obviously no brutal conquest is pretty—but I could tell the glory was beginning to discolor itself and turn into its brutal twin, shameless revenge.

Now, I admit that I often enjoyed the thrill of a good fight, but that glorified sort of feeling died away in sweet Jeanne's regretful eyes. Since her presence, I couldn't find myself to enjoy fighting much anymore; I couldn't really understand why other than the fact that the brutal violence hurt her so much—and I refused to make such a sad impact on her caring heart. But it never occurred to me that there could have been another, intrinsic reason behind my sudden distaste and lack of drive.

Amid the mess of countrymen batting at each other, tensions rose high and brought out some quick tempers. Jeanne stood comfortably at a distance, overseeing the tactics she contributed to the cause. While scanning the area, a particular scene caught her innocent eyes. An Englishman had fallen to the ground, defeated, and was barely alive or conscious among the hundreds of us humans battling it out to the end. One of our fellow troops stood beside the fallen man and, without any resentment, kicked him in the head repeatedly as he lay dying.

Sweet Jeanne fled in sympathy toward the poor soul—with a caring heart that searched for all to love. Shooing away the fellow Frenchman, she fell to the ground and took the beaten man's head in her hands, calling out to him with a broken voice. Hoping he would answer to assure her he's all right. With pained tears, she shouted for a priest—a yell which faded into the all-encompassing sounds of brutal combat. But a muffle in this loud, crazy world. Knowing it was then too late, she stayed beside the poor man and cried. Mourning the sadness of the world…the brutality of battle…the loss of yet another poor soul who never had a chance.

It's just her again. Whenever I saw her like that, the world and all properties of it would just fade away. But what can I do? Observe? That's all I could do, really. A strange feeling drained my veins of all energy—hardened my heart with emptiness and strife. Is it remorse? Regret? I couldn't quite place it then. There were no tears for me, but I could feel a lump in my throat as though my body wished to cry but didn't have the resolve to do so. The reason to justify the need for tears. Instead, I stood and watched her—invisible, detached from the world—with a chained heart, a paralyzed body, a repentant soul. Until I became so weak—so light-headed from the emptiness that clutched every inch of me down to my ephemeral, evasive soul that I felt phantom-like. As though I didn't even exist. Or maybe that I could fly away or disappear into a fog.

Disappear. That such a filthy soul as I could disappear.

Maybe reappear. But at a different time—one where I could realize just how she felt. Just why she cried. Just what she felt that I didn't.

Unfortunately or not, I got my wish. Just years later. Centuries later. Months later.

After our grand string of conquests, we finally reached an off time where we could reflect on our achievements and plan for the trip to Reims at the end of June. For what seemed to be the longest time, I finally had my energy back and felt like I could run all around the world a few hundred times without getting tired. I was so grateful, for I believed that the incessant pain and burdens that kept battering me had made me age or had turned me old. But now that I was back on the uphill, I felt as young as I had ever felt.

With a bright smile, I visited Sweetie as she stayed to rest at the nearby castle with her guards at waiting by her room. She never really liked having guards, but she didn't really mind their presence, either. It was just something that existed for her, and she often talked with them—being friendly and all. Staying in her room, she rested, occasionally getting up out of permission to look out the window or to take little walks around the room. When I first visited to check on her, she was behaving and staying in bed. As I sat beside her, the glint in her eyes was evident that she was unhappy being kept from the outside. Poor cutie. Though she never harmed another person throughout all our conquests, she was often injured at each battle, a fact which beat me down and saddened me and a fact which bothered her because she didn't like being restricted. Even though she was young and she healed quite quickly, she dreaded the hours and sometimes days of wait she'd have to endure before going out again. I wonder if she wished she were like me and healed within minutes.

"You doing OK?" I asked.

"I am fine," she assured, hiding the uncertainty and disdain in her eyes. Staring longingly out the window, she requested, "I would like to go for a walk with you again when I get better."

"Of course." I smiled. "But for now, you have to rest so you can recover faster."

She only sighed in reply.

"I know. It's tough. But I believe in you."

She nodded. I couldn't tell if she liked it when I treated her like a kid or if it bothered her. Either way, she relaxed her head on the pillows and closed her eyes.

Stroking her hair, I whispered, "I'll be back later, all right? I have to go out for a bit. Sleep well."

She looked so peaceful as she dreamed. Such a sweetie. I wanted to remain at her side and dream with her, but there was something I had to do. Something I've been wanting to do for years. Something I could finally, after all this time, feel confident about doing.

I went to rub my success in England's face.

With the most annoying mocking laugh I could muster, I called out to the idiot, "Well! Not so high and mighty now, are you? How does it feel to lose so much so fast, huh?"

He scoffed. "Yah. You would know how that feels better than I would."

I tossed the proverbial tennis ball back in our match of the wits. "Well, not anymore. And soon you'll be the one begging for mercy."

"What makes you say that? You just got lucky!" he fumed.

"Again with the luck, I see. Stop bringing that up! It's true skill, I say!"

"Oh, please! You couldn't even win a fight with a little songbird!"

"Hey!" Him and his stupid insults. It drives me crazy! "I'll have you know that the little birds like me very much! And that one incident was just a fluke! It was hungry!" Drawing a deep breath, I changed the subject. "Well, either way, this little has-been certainly is getting the upper hand on you, huh? What do you say about that?"

He groaned, taking the sting of reality. "Well, you've got me there."

"HA!"

"But don't think you've won yet! The next battle's only beginning!"

"Au contraire, mon ami. I have love and power on my side. There's no way I can lose! Also, I'm getting a new king, so there."

He scoffed again. "So what?"

"So," I pouted, speaking in a silly voice, "you better count your days because they're numbered."

Sick of listening to my nonsense, he closed his eyes shut and walked away.

"I mean it!" I call out. "The once great Kingdom of France will rise again!"

Stopping, he turned around to deliver one last remark. "Sure. But not without another big fight from me." Hesitating, he commented, "You may have had quite the winning streak lately…"

"That's right. I have," I agreed with a puffed-up chest.

"But don't get too used to it," he continued without interruption. "It won't last long."

I was sure the world fell to pieces at that moment. Reality shook the fantasy I had created, driving the sickening thoughts into my heart that all this was just a daydream that could end at any minute. Just fragments remained now—pieces that came together and fell apart gradually as I continued, walked through my empty life, with her. As he walked away, I remained, stymied, trying to process the words he had said and why they pierced my heart and quaked my confidence so much. Then, after a moment of pondering, I swallowed all my apprehension and, leaving it all behind, I walked away. Returning to her. Remaining at her side.

And as I went, I passed a patch of lilies—standing tall in neat rows, about to fill the world with their purest beauty. I smiled. "I know," I whispered. "I'll go on, too."

And then it was time to take our journey to Reims to crown the new king. We left at the end of June, and the Lord guided our path, keeping us safe the entire trip there. But though our voyage was safe and directed, the other aspects of the process did not go without blockades. We weren't given any money, and the invites Jeanne sent out for the ceremony either never returned or were responded to in odd ways. And, at that time, the Duke of Burgundy was a rival to us, and he tricked us in roundabout ways, lying that he would give Paris back and saying he would agree to set a time for peace but giving us only two weeks of peace instead. Everything was a delicate balance at that time, and I was worried we were treading on the precipice. But, to untrained eyes, everything seemed fine, and the trip did go very smoothly.

It was just the action that was occurring in the letters. The writing and instruction amid the actions we made in reality. And it bothered Jeanne the most, for she still held loyalty to the king and wanted to see the ceremony go well, plus she was the one who sent the letters and arranged the event. In a sense, to put it all in a more modern-day perspective if I may, she was the party planner and none of the preparations were going just as she had hoped they would. The invites were ignored, strange envoys were being sent to us, the manager of the place where we were holding the event refused to cooperate with us, no one wanted to chip in any money for the festivities, and our ideas were conflicting with others' ideas. It wasn't very pleasant. But somehow, she and I made it work.

Though it continued to bother her, she would stop periodically along the route to double check everything and to organize the mail, sending more letters if necessary. And requesting politely for money.

She would sigh and say things like, "I wish they would respond" or "I don't know why I am getting strange responses back."

And I would just stay beside her and comfort her, offering quiet consolation.

Mid-trip, it was the same thing again, and I stayed beside her as always, offering my companionship. "Don't worry about it, OK?" I said. A lovestruck sigh escaped me, and she gave me that bemused look again—indicating I was daydreaming again. I cherished spending time with her like that. Our quiet moments.

"Oh…" her eyes softened, examining my face with interest. "Your face."

"Hm?"

"Your face has cleared."

"Oh. That's right. I'm cleared up now because of our successive wins. I'm slowly becoming my old self again!" I declared happily.

Before, I was a tattered mess with dark patches and scrapes all over—plus light circles under my eyes that made me look like I hadn't slept fully in days. And I don't even want to mention my hair—it had gotten completely away from me and turned frizzy and dull. I was like a poor kid full of all the dust and dirt the world had thrown at me. My face had taken the blunt of the damage, showing scrapes that refused to heal. But because of our victories and the returning of the land, my complexion cleared, and it became evident I was finally making my way back. I was glad to be handsome again. With my younger face softened by youth but sturdy with the onset of wisdom. My hair then was blonde tinged with platinum, and my eyes remained the same, though shimmering with the last remains of innocence. I didn't yet have my "elegant scruff" that often distinguishes me. But I still looked older than the others…somehow.

"I see… So, these occurrences are connected to you somehow," she noted as though adding to her study.

"Yes, these kinds of things happen all the time."

"So you really are the country, then…" she affirmed quietly to herself.

A soft smile came to my face. Though she had always believed me, seeing me change with the times and heal quickly among other supernatural events always fascinated her. It was cute seeing her so curious.

"Come on," I spoke up, standing and taking her hand away from the letters. "Let's take some time off. You're worrying too much about all this. Want to take a walk?"

Hesitating, her eyes clung to the stacks of parchment. Letting go of a silent sigh, she turned her youthful eyes to me at last. "Sure. A walk sounds nice."

It was another magnificently clear evening. The radiant blue sky softened, painted with a myriad of colors. Like a symphony of the evening. The sun burned a bright orange as it descended for another night of rest. She always liked to accompany me on my evening walks—and stand beside me to watch the sunset, allowing the beauty and quiet of the scene to wash over her, an otherworldly and spiritual experience for her. We'd often converse, as well, just enjoying the simple moments and winding down before another battle or long journey came to test us.

As the evening fades to night, I always find myself pondering. I suppose that's when the "Melancholic Muse" tends to come out in me.

"I wonder what makes me so special…" I commented aloud, wondering always just why God decided to give me another chance. Sure, I was desperate…but did I really have another purpose? At a time when I felt I had no meaning in the world, I didn't know what awaited me. And I was no saint, either. I tried to do well, but I wasn't as devout as I should have been, and my pessimism and sadness often beat me down too much for my own good.

As I rambled on, she kept a quiet and interested eye on me; she already knew the answer.

"But you are special, Monsieur France. Every nation and person is essential to this world. We all bring diversity and different ways of living and ideas here. All with unique points of view. The Lord God loves all of his creation and wants us all to live here equally. You could say the different nations are sacred, in that way."

"You…think I'm sacred?" What a strange compliment for me, I thought. Too perfect-sounding and flattering for someone like me. It made blush rise to my face.

"In a way, yes. The Lord sees meaning in you and knows the purpose you must fulfil. This is why I was called to help you."

A soft sigh tinted with an embarrassed and humble chuckle escaped me as I turned to hide my abnormally red face. I was honored. She always spoke highly of me, sounding so patriotic and zealous for me all the time, and I never quite knew how to react to her determination. I was as special to her as she was to me. Sigh…

Though I was still unwilling to accept such high words and sentiments. "I see…" I whispered; a soft whisper that faded into the soft zephyr that passed us by.

Why…do I feel so warm around her?

Unfortunately, there was something else that inhibited an almost perfect excursion and an almost perfect plan. Jeanne and the king-to-be Charles still weren't seeing eye-to-eye on many things, and they would often break out into arguments whenever they got together to discuss ideas or strategies. Their personalities differed, their ideas differed, and they never could really get along all that well. They both held mutual respect for each other, and they spoke well of each other—they just couldn't agree.

Jeanne wanted to battle for Paris again, but Charles insisted we wait it out and "hope" that the Duke of Burgundy will change his mind. Jeanne acted out of confidence and assurance while Charles refused to do anything that had any slight chance of risk. They certainly were not the kind to work together on such big projects.

And it bothered me the most to see them argue all the time—more frequently as time passed. More intensely as situations and crises heightened. I felt so trapped in the middle; unable to do anything but watch and see who comes out scratched in the end. I hated that. I've always felt so distant—so incapable. Like the damsel in distress or the supervisor of the affairs of an entirely different world.

I didn't want that anymore.

With the events of the conquests and my revival, I had gained new vision, new confidence. Jeanne taught me I was worth it all—all the pain and struggle and the fighting. All the care and love. And so, I took a deep breath and stepped out of my shell. Out from the old and to the new—crossing the dimension of space and coming to terms with who I was in the here and now. The France she saw.

I had found my voice at last.

"Stop this arguing," I demanded in a confident but gentle tone. "This isn't the time. I know you both have differing ideas, but we need to come to a compromise sometime. A lot is at stake here."

Silent and surprised, they both looked at me with wide, confused eyes.

At last, Charles turned to Jeanne and asked, stuttering, "Who is this? Do you know him?"

"So it had worked," I mused. I had made myself visible for the first time in a long while.

Jeanne lowered her head in respect. "This is your country, my king."

Still flabbergasted, Charles looked back and forth from her to me as though trying to find an answer somewhere else than us—perhaps from thin air. "But how can that be?!"

Relaxing from my serious and stoic disposition, I formed a genuine smile. "It's true. I'm the Kingdom of France. I've been here this whole time. Even before there were people living here."

He still didn't quite understand or grasp the situation, but that was all right. We explained a bit more and left him alone a moment so he could rest and process what had happened and so that Jeanne and I could get some fresh air once again. I could tell she was ready to burst, but seeing me acting strong made her feel warm and composed again. I'm glad I was able to help her and stand beside her just as she had done for me.

But as the sun crossed the blue expanse, slowly fading in the evening sky, her confidence waned more and more until she went off on her own to the comforting embrace of the quiet nature and pondered all that was, is, and will be.

Of course, I followed.

It was painful upon my heart to see her vibrant eyes so dull and apprehensive. Her face so stricken with worry and heart so lost and empty. I knew she needed someone; I wanted it to be me. I wanted to be able to solve all her transgressions and to love her despite everything. I could only love—never solve or take or relieve—only love. As I will continue to do.

"I feel so isolated," she muttered. "So alone. I'm being attacked on all sides, and someday, they will come and get me. That's what I fear the most. I can sense it… But maybe I'm just imagining it all. Being…betrayed. It's a horrible thing to think, isn't it? But…maybe it could happen?"

Beads of water fell from her eyes; pained, suppressed. Not knowing how else to help, I held her and pulled her beside me while thinking of all the possible things I could say. But would any of them really help? Poetic words and sentiments can hardly act as some sort of magic spell that changes and fixes everything, right? But only one thing truly came to mind as she buried her face in my chest and cried.

"I'd never betray you…" I whispered.

Because I love you.

I wanted to tell her that. "I love you." I wanted so badly to say it. But I didn't. I couldn't. And I don't know why. I don't know why.

I don't know why.


	2. Chapter 2

**Act II:**

 **THE SIMPLE DAYS**

 **The Simple Days…**

These are my favorite days to remember. They were both melancholic and simple while also being a magical moment apart from the flow of time. It was then that, gradually, we talked and learned about each other—simple lives with complex personifications and tragic hearts. Our lives intertwined in a mysterious fashion that I, not being very good with words, cannot begin to explain. I wanted those days to last forever. Especially when I learned of what awaited us.

For the first time in years, I felt like a better person. In ways, I had crawled from the pit of despair and triumphed to become myself again. Of course, I had a little help. I could spend my days pondering rather than worrying…but I still had a long way to go before I could become whole again and before I could consider myself an "equal" or a force to be reckoned with. But if it weren't for Jeanne, I'd be nobody.

I guess it is easy to say I was starting anew with greater things because we had succeeded in holding the coronation ceremony. Now, I had a king. I didn't know what sort of trials or opportunities that would bring, but I felt oddly secure knowing I had a sort of second in command at my side. Besides her, I mean. She's always my second.

And here I thought she'd be elated or at the very least proud of herself, but the poor girl held nothing like a smile the days following the crowning. She happened to come while I was out thinking one day, and we conversed, as usual.

"What's this?" I asked as I took my place beside her. "I thought for sure you would be happy! Or at the very least proud of yourself… You did everything you said you would; you have fulfilled your purpose."

"Well, yes, I have. I followed the Lord's orders to the letter, and our path was clear and guided to the time of the ceremony…" Suddenly, her countenance fell, and those eyes the color of shimmering green waters turned melancholic and shaded with apprehension. My heart once again hid away in a dark place. "But I am beginning to regret it," she stated, like all her other declarations, with a tone full of confidence. "King Charles is so passive and I so impulsive—we argue almost constantly. Maybe I made a mistake."

Standing beside her as she rested upon the hill, I put a comforting hand upon her shoulder. "God never makes mistakes."

"True," she answered definitively after a moment.

"Is something else bothering you?" I questioned softly, expressing my concern and amity as I took a seat beside her.

"I do not wish to burden you with my problems."

"It's not that I wouldn't mind…it's just that I miss seeing your smile."

She shot me a look of dear surprise and confusion, and I smiled warmly back. It's true that I missed seeing her happy; I felt so worthless and sick of myself when she was not warming the world like the inspiring rays of the morning sun. I always wished there were something I could do—or, at the very least, that my silly quirks and dumbly romantic self would help.

"You are a strange character, Monsieur France," she stated warmly and matter-of-factly, a quiet smile making its way from her heart. "And I like that about you."

I'm sure I blushed when she said that; I had the silliest habit of turning an innocent, rosy shade whenever I was beside her. Even now…just thinking about her brings a warm smile to my face—accompanied by a barely-noticeable but ever-true tint of blush.

After a moment's hesitation, her smile once again dissipated, and a grave heaviness covered what once was.

"I feel so alone."

The words hit me like little needles poking my skin.

"Like God has abandoned me."

"He wouldn't do that."

"But I do not sense His presence. Why does He do that?"

Sigh… I don't know. "Perhaps to test you."

Resolutely, the glint of purpose returned to her eyes, and she stood up straightly. "Maybe you're right—I have fulfilled my purpose. I don't have a reason to be here anymore."

Impulsively, I clenched her arm, keeping her from leaving, and pleaded half-hysterically, "Don't say that!"

Her eyes wide and full of terror followed by concern, she searched me silently for answers. Backing down, I realized I shouldn't have acted that way. I had been so worried about losing her—a paranoid thought that I couldn't keep from resurfacing—that my worries had even begun to overtake my actions.

"I-I mean…" Gradually, I released my grip on her, telling myself to calm down and keep my delusions to myself. "You do still have a purpose… I know you do." I meant that. Every ounce of my heart wanted to believe it was so. She did have more to do—more tasks to complete. Just…not what I had wished.

"Then I would like to know what it is," she declared, her eyes admiring the wide sky.

Letting my worries fly away into the peaceful cerulean sky, I held on to the crisp air and told myself I could only dream of good things. "Me, too."

But the quest to save my soul and to regain my honor led me back to my heart—my dear Paris. How I missed my precious city. I'll never forget that day—when I was but a timid and listless infant—when I first laid eyes upon that land, a soft patch of grass. It was nothing then, but it was everything to me. I set camp there; I hardly ever left that simple spot. I planted seeds and watched them grow… I drew up plans for great castles and fortresses in my head. It was my own special place. One day, I had a kind of revelation—as my once dear secret spot began to take shape as a village and eventually a city. At first, I was devastated my special place was discovered, but a kind of vision or reassuring voice came to me—the voice of Paris. She told me we'd become great together—that I would build my city, ma belle Paris.

Ah, of course—she was right.

And so my heart yearned to get back on my feet and fight for my sweet city again—to take her back into my arms like a cherished toy or treasure box of memories and make her new again. The thought that England still owned my city disgusted me. I knew he wouldn't treat it right or see her beauty the way I did. The way I still do. I wish I never signed that document.

Of course, I had help this time and greater plans than before—when it was just yours truly and Mr. Bossy slashing at each other with swords. Though, it's strange. The whole time, regardless of the same combatting differences between Jeanne and the King, this odd sinking feeling weighed down my heart. I didn't understand why my dreams felt like they were a world away and I couldn't reach for them—just as my dear city was apart from me, and though we could see each other in the distance, our whispers would never carry to each other. But, all that aside, King Charles agreed for us to fight for Paris, and we took the journey back to my beloved city. Jeanne was content that the king was listening to her, and she looked forward to seeing Paris. Though my city was a humbler sight than she is now, you could tell she was growing to be a fine young lady and the inspiration to many. I wanted to share the story and specialty of my city with her; I knew she'd understand just what made Paris so meaningful to me.

As we followed the river Seine, I could feel my heart swell as the distance shortened. Like a divine, persistent call from the distance, her voice rang out to me—the voice of Paris. When we'd arrived, immediately, my army and I were met with barricades and armies, and we rushed into battle, following the strategy we had set. Going off on my own, my heart led me forward—compelled me to reach out. Sprinting past all the people, all the guards, I overtook the wall in a single bound, a leap powered by love.

Finally, I was alone; safe atop the overlook, the noise of the world faded away…and we were once again together. Oh, it had been so long—or it seemed that way. An eternity had kept us apart. The cool stone surfaces, the beautiful stone buildings all in a row, the majestic Notre Dame and the universities… It was as though I had never left. Relieved, I found myself sighing and smiling, cherishing the moments just being there again—observing and guarding with intent eyes and a caring heart.

"Did you miss me, my love?" I whispered. ("Of course I did," came the reply.)

But of course he had to come and ruin the moment. Clothed ominously in a black cloak, his presence was a hovering black cloud raining all over my nice day. Sigh.

"So, what? Did you come to reminisce or did you come to fight?" England teased me.

"I want no part of you. This battle is not with you but with myself," I returned.

He continued on as though I had said nothing, "It seems like only yesterday that I had you begging for mercy and handing over your favorite city to me." With a confident, nostalgic sigh, he added for extra torture, "But I have to admit my favorite was the battle of Agincourt. Though Crécy was great, too."

Ugh. "Are you done making me feel depressed and guilty?"

Rolling my eyes, I ignored him as he continued on his stupid ramblings. Wishing to escape—just to spend time with my beloved Paris—I walked to the edge of the stone towers that held the gates, letting the sun wash over me as it peeked from behind the looming gray skies. Quietly, solemnly, I disappeared and admired the buildings from afar. Watched over the years and the citizens that were to be. That were to return. Then, there was nothing. Nothing but cold stone and silence. It was somewhat moving that way, but it was also very somber.

"Did I fail you?" I asked quietly. "Am I really that much of a failure? I can't do much of anything on my own, can I? Is there anything I'm really good at? Was it all…a mistake to save someone like me?"

Sweet Paris had no answers, but her comforting solace and companionship was enough for me. I knew she had a future I wanted to oversee. She was almost like my daughter in that way… A little sister of sorts. She was far greater than I—upholding a legacy that I, myself, didn't even have. An innocent love that was greater.

But then Idiot had to interrupt again, though more quietly than his other tauntings. "Reminiscing again, old man? You shouldn't stay in the past."

"Like you should talk," I muttered under my breath.

"Come on!" he yelled, trying to ignite some sort of dead feeling inside me. "I thought for sure you would try to fight back for your so-called 'favorite city.' Draw your sword, you coward!"

Sigh. I couldn't. I wasn't strong enough. It wasn't yet the time…for me to win her back. The previous days were filled with ideas of grandeur—that I would triumphantly ascend and attain my rightful place as head of this grand land. A nation perhaps greater than I make myself to be. Fighting my way back up and relishing in the glory I gained and the pain I caused. But is that really what I wanted? Why…did everything seem so empty? So meaningless? Was my bright star about to burn out? Maybe it was just me.

My heart sank; I almost heard Paris say "Wait for me. Wait for me." The struggles around me, the over-powering enemy army both overtook the long-awaited conclusion I had so dreamed of. The fantasy that all this would finally be over, and I would have my beautiful city back, enjoying her stories and life with Jeanne at my side. But that's only what I had wished and what I had wanted. It wasn't the reality. It wasn't how it was meant to be. If dreams could pervade reality…

Separated by gates but protected by those same gates.

Disappointed and empty—but I understood. I was just glad she was safe. All I really wanted was to make sure she was OK. And to promise I will return—triumphantly—because I knew we would conquer and win my honor back. I wonder if Paris knew then, too.

Heavy, limp, but still standing, I turned away—the sight of sweet Paris fading from my eyes and living in my mind. My hand was still resting against the cool stone, which had begun to take in some of my warmth. "You can't win them all, can you? You can't win them all." I said that mostly to myself—as a kind of admittance or maybe even a dumb excuse. But that was enough. I had to accept that then—as much as I didn't want to. Paris is safe, now I needed to protect Jeanne. She and I would return someday.

Casually passing him by, I scanned the area, sensing my other sweetie needed me. "Now, if you'll pardon me, I'm being summoned," I said, dismissing him. With another leap, this time of faith, I returned to the ground and swiftly found my spot beside Jeanne again.

"Monsieur France," she acknowledged my presence, a little startled to see me all the sudden.

"Don't worry. How is it?" I asked anyway, knowing all too well how it was going.

She responded only with a fallen face and a tiny, "Not so good." Her face was recovering from being stricken by seething hot tears—pained tears of longing for so much but realizing the true enemy wasn't the English armies but the predetermined boundary of fate, which none may define or defile.

I wanted to hold her and tell her it's all right—that it wasn't meant to be and that's OK. That Paris would wait for us and remain safe. To come with me and enjoy another walk tonight as though it were something less astronomical than a failed battle. As though instead we were trying out recipes or something mundane and that a simple mistake like that would be easily fixed. But it wasn't that simple. And that bothered her.

We returned to our camp to rest and to regain our strength. Jeanne couldn't focus on anything else but her thoughts; she was detracted by worry and concern. Poor cutie. In her thoughts, she was far away; eyes dull with worry, she left dinner early to find the king.

"I must seek him," she explained her feelings. "I must speak to him about today."

"All right. Let's go," I escorted her.

I saw her to the façade of the castle in which he was staying, but it wasn't long that she returned outside—puffing with steam and aghast with frustrated surprise. It wasn't until we returned to our room at the same castle that she relayed her feelings to me.

"I can't believe this!" she stomped about the room, flailing her arms exasperatedly to emphasize her frustration. "Why would he just flee? And return to the Loire?!"

"Calm down," I voiced softly in attempt to reassure her. "I don't understand it, either. But there has to be some sort of reason." Though, I have to admit that I can't think of a logical explanation even now why he fled. It wasn't just strange—it was off. Amiss.

Finding a comfortable spot, she stopped, hanging her head dejectedly. With a sigh, she muttered, "I thought for sure we were finally getting along…that we were in agreement…" Without warning, she spun, fluidly, to face me and announced clearly, "Let us go after him! If we leave now, we should be able to catch him."

"Now?" I repeated dubiously. I knew once that spark of determination settled in her emerald eyes, there was no way to douse her passion, but still, I was a little doubtful as to why we needed to leave immediately. After all, we had business here by Paris. Or maybe I should have told myself to stop fantasizing the notion that I would at last be free that day and reclaim my sweet city. It still hung in my heart—a heavy notion.

"I want to ask him if we can start another conquest to liberate Paris."

I must admit that I was truly touched by her words, as manner-of-fact they were and as declarative as they were stated. The simple phrase softened my heart. "I see." Coming away from the wall, I stretched my back a little. "Do you feel we should try again?"

"Well…not exactly. But I would like to hear what he has to say."

"But why?"

"I…" Once again, after shy hesitation, she turned away from me, her face turning toward the floor, her golden hair reaching along with her eyes. "I would usually make the decision myself, but… I haven't been feeling anything lately. It seemed impulsive to everyone else, but I acted with determination because it was the Lord's orders I was following." After a poignant pause, she added, "I haven't been getting instructions from Him lately."

My heart fell, and the words left me. I could only mirror her grief and attempt to understand it.

Though soft, her words found their way out of the silence, "So it seems only natural I should ask the King." After a moment of reflection, I realized the pinch of regret and distaste in her tone.

A quick but solemn breath escaped me. Reaching for her gentle shoulder, I stood beside her—just wanting more than anything to hold her and to reassure her everything would be all right…while magically displaying the answer and means to solve everything as my heart truly wished to. But I never wanted to promise her anything I couldn't keep. And so, I closed my eyes and reminded myself—pushed away all doubt—that we would always make it through all this together. All I really wanted was to see her happy again.

"What is your heart telling you to do?" I asked her compassionately. That's where I turn when I am lost.

"My heart…?" She questioned softly, turning her eyes to me for a second before abandoning the notion and lowering her sweet head to the ground, feeling alone and unwanted. For once, her confidence was gone, and she was but a little girl in an unfamiliar place—afraid and a little tired. Gentle tears escaped her eyes, falling to the stone floor below.

"I just want to go home," she admitted, her little heart reaching out as though longing for the simple days before all of this happened. The innocence and simplicity of childhood and family.

My heart broke—quietly—aching to save her somehow. So pained, barely a whisper…

"Jeanne…"

And so, we set off in pursuit of the missing king, hoping we would find him within a few days. Before we mounted our horses to depart swiftly, little Jeanne told the others with a calm but slightly sorrowful voice, "I must go to see the King Charles. I shall try to return as quickly as I can, but I'm sorry if I do not return. I will send a message straightaway of his orders. Please don't worry. We will be going now."

It amused me how confused they looked when she said "we."

The horses took off quickly, leaving a trail of dirt and grass in their wake, and I sighed, knowing we probably wouldn't return to try again. Turning back, I took one last look at my beloved city—unable to turn my eyes away until she faded into the distance—the horizon—my setting sun.

"Someday, I promise, you will rise again," I pleaded, tears forming in my eyes.

It didn't take long for us to spot the king encamping in a nearby town about a day or so away from Orléans. Once he was found, he let down his guard, sensing Jeanne's displeasure of him from quite the distance, and invited us to join him at the castle. I was concerned by the serious and rather sorrowful aura the two of them displayed together; only then did I realize the tension she was always explaining. My heart sunk, and I felt bad for leaving her alone all those times and never quite understanding what she meant. Although, when we returned to the castle, she stepped aside and instructed me, solemnly, to wait outside for her.

And, unfortunately or not, I listened.

As I awaited her return from visiting the king, I sighed a breath of fresh air and savored the moment of peace that surrounded me. It was almost impossible—to me—to believe that someday this would all be over, and I would eventually emerge victorious, starting new battles with myself as I put the pieces back together again. That I'd be enjoying peaceful days like this all the time. Then, I found myself dreaming of the future, while taking in the warm sunshine of the bucolic day. That was back when my naïve heart felt with all its being that she and I would share a life together. Haha…Young love is so innocent…

Losing my worries in the eternal blue sky, I dreamed of our smiling faces and our calm, peaceful world together as we cherished the spring breeze, the starry sky, the slow progress of my land, and—of course—each other. Just holding each other and fading away into our little eternity…

As I chuckled to myself about my silly fantasy, I spun to catch the breeze and to revel in my joy—when a sight I wasn't expecting caught my open eyes. There, Jeanne returned from the castle, passing the guards with her head slanted to the grass. Without her distinctive armor covering her riding outfit and without her distinctive standard and without her divine saber resting at her side, I hardly recognized her. Only then did I notice her hair had started to grow back ever so slightly, curling at the edges of blonde frays and reaching to her vapid eyes.

"What is it?" I instinctually asked, reaching toward her as though to take her in an embrace. Though, she shied away, so I recalled my arms, chuckling silently to myself. I was thinking too much about hugging, I suppose. She was always shy around everyone, even me, when it came to contact. "What happened? Where's your armor and sword?"

She sighed heavily, cloaking her downcast expression with the shadow the hiding sun produced, "I have fulfilled my duties, and I no longer have any use of them."

"How is that?"

Dismissing formalities, she opened up to me honestly. "The King has isolated me from everyone and has refused for me to fight any longer or to associate with anyone. Now I am truly alone. I was afraid this would happen, and now I have nothing any longer. No one…" her soft voice trailed away; her eyes, then closed, pushed back any and all tears.

"You still have me."

Unable to keep the pain and tears at bay, she finally burst, sobbing, and jumped to me, as though to shield herself from the world. Holding her, I allowed her to cry, and I patted her petite back to comfort her. My little girl. It was so warm being near to her. Cherishing the moment, I rested my head atop hers and waited quietly until her tears faded away.

You'll always have me.

Having nowhere to stay then, she was at a loss, so I invited her to stay at an old castle I had claimed as my own. That silly place is where I decided to make my home a few decades prior to this madness I found myself in. That castle was then my special place—chez moi—where I could stay and have my own fun and quiet time. I didn't mind sharing it with her. Though reluctant, she followed me, and I assured her it would be fine.

Everyone knows about my affinity for showing affection and being close to those I love, let alone the fact that I constantly talk about love and feel love for everyone. To some, that means I give off the air of being silly; to others, it makes them feel wary or a bit judgmental of my character. And so, if I may, I'd like to clarify a little bit (and this involves going off on a little tangent for a while… This is a memoir, after all haha). As a child, I was very curious and dewey-eyed but also quite lonely. I didn't understand love until I fell in love, of course, with Sweetie Pie during this age of time. That is to say that my "usual" character didn't really manifest until la Belle Epoque, where I had an abundance of ego and an insane amount of confidence and energy. There's also, of course, a very sad story behind all this…but I don't feel comfortable elaborating on that here and now. Cutie knows (~CRK), and that's fine for me. She understands. And, in a way, she helped me to understand myself and why I am the way I am.

I guess all I can say is that, in the end, I just like being close to those I love and care about—to feel them near me even when I close my eyes; to know they are there. I do like to show love in other ways (words, caring sentiments, helping, etc.), but I feel my sentiments are conveyed most accurately in warm hugs or simple company. Closeness and affection. Haha. I'm strange that way. But, yes, I do keep it a sacred rule to make sure everyone is comfortable with me, so I will back down if asked to do so (preferably in a polite or cute way). Sweet Jeannette often was nervous around me, so I tried to contain myself then—in the days when my heart would wax poetic without my really knowing why. She had devoted herself to a chaste life, after all, and she was a very sweet and well-behaved girl, so I respected that about her. As such, I've always viewed my love for her as platonic, though with the rich scent of eternity and the undying longing to be by her side always to complete any aspect of her life—to provide her with all the sort of happiness she would seek. Hehe… Let's just say it's complicated… Every kind of love is unique and special—unable to be described even with poetry, art, or music—the languages of the soul. Only the heart knows.

In the end, affection is important to me, and I regret every day that I didn't show her more…even though I was sure she probably wouldn't have accepted my sweet, innocent declarations of love. Sigh. I wish I could hold her in my arms once again…forever…

Well, before I interrupt any more or change the mood, I should continue the story.

When we arrived at the castle I claimed for myself, little Jeanne admired the structure and interior of the humble building with wide, curious eyes. The castle wasn't nearly as big as the usual ones, though there were the minimum number of rooms, including a dining area and a kitchen and a parlor. Wherever I lead, she followed me close, noting the echoes that came from the solitude.

"It is a bit lonely with only the two of us in this large castle," she commented.

"Well, I have another smaller house nearby; we could go there if you'd prefer," I said.

"Oh, that is all right, Monsieur France. You do not have to cater to my ungrateful responses. It really is thoughtful of you to invite me here to stay."

"Good. I just want you to be comfortable," I assured softly.

With a sigh, she perched at the edge of the bed in the main quarters, looking down thoughtfully.

"What is it?" I asked, concerned, refraining myself from sitting next to her.

"Well, it is strange. The King also said I would be welcome to stay at his castle. But it seems strange—as though there could be another motive behind his words. Though, he said I could visit my brothers there."

"That's fine. You can visit them if you'd like." I tried to sound as caring as possible in my gentle tone of voice. "I want you to feel free to do what you would like to do, ma petite. I just request…if you go, please let me know so I can go along with you to see you there. I don't want you to go alone; I want to make sure you're safe."

Tired of being told what to do by the King and the others, she was comforted by my words. For the first time in what seemed to be months, she smiled warmly, delicate and refreshing like the sun's rays. My heart melted to cool spring water.

Since then, in that cool but lonely autumn, began the days where we had only each other. Time slowed to a quiet pace, drifting by like a stray puffy cloud against the bright, blue sky. It wasn't exactly a lonely time because we had each other, but Jeanne nevertheless often fought with isolation and worries. I didn't like seeing her with such a sad face—stricken by hopelessness and aimlessness. Following my instructions, she asked me to escort her places, most often to see her brothers at the castle, and to accompany me on my walks when I decided to leave. Admittedly, it was a nice change of pace. Very casual. Each day felt refreshingly normal and uneventful—but beautiful because I shared them with her.

It was during this slow time that I was able to keep up on my diary, something I felt compelled to keep the moment I first met Jeanne. I don't know why I felt so adamantly persuaded to chronicle every single event and line of her life…perhaps to cherish it, perhaps to retain every ounce of her memory, perhaps just because I was gradually and inexplicably drawn to her—to the point where I fell and tumbled madly in love. Either way, we now have extensive records about her life because of the journal I kept and papers I have hoarded… I just couldn't bear to see them fade away to the flow of time like lost sands taken by the ocean's waves. She wasn't just ephemeral. I wanted her to be immortalized… even if it were only in memory and documents. Places and stepping stones. Statues and days. She's still here—beside me. Somehow. Somewhere.

Either way, I spent a lot of time writing in my journal—so much so that she actually became concerned about me and was curious about what exactly I spent so much time working on. With a smile, I just explained that sometimes one needs to confine one's thoughts to something… to let it be heard. Remembered—even to my future self with ailing mind that, even in all its struggle and deterioration, would never allow any detail of her to slip away.

She was compassionate to my need to say confidential, and she didn't really ask me much more after that. Though, curiously enough, she joined me those nights I sat to write, and she practiced stitching and knitting, which she was quite good at. It seemed to help ease her troubles, as it recalled the days she would help her mother back at her house and on the farm. I was glad to see her so content. She even made us both little blankets. So adorable. And sometimes she would practice her letters, learning how to write her name and mine. It was cute, to me, to see her with such a determined look on her face as she tried to copy my examples. We made the simple days such a pleasure to relax and to just enjoy each other's company.

The cool autumn breeze nourished my soul. It was a lovely evening—so calm as the stars fell to the sky. My favorite sunsets are the ones that are tinged with lavender and bright pink against a muted blue—colors which fade away as the sun burns a bright orange, so full and light. Even now, whenever the sky bursts into bloom, displaying those lovely colors, I remember that evening with her. And I feel at peace, closing my eyes and always feeling her warm presence near. It's our special place—always waiting for us to return.

It was the first harvest that particular evening; I tended the garden, receiving its bountiful gifts, and brought the fresh produce indoors to be stored and to cook dinner. Of course, she was kind and quick to help me with my task, and her eyes sparkled whenever I cooked—an adorable fact that makes me smile even now, perhaps even more now than how it influenced me then. I found myself preparing soups and stews more often then, trying to chase away the unseasonable cold, especially into the winter, and she always enjoyed whatever I found fit to make, often commenting upon what sorts of things she and her family would prepare back at home. It was special to see her in such a simplistic, rustic way during those quiet, alone times we shared… Little Jeanne, a sweet girl who was otherwise normal and carefree if it weren't for the great burdens we shared and the ominous, solemn shadows that were always plotting against us from afar. It was refreshing—to us both—to see each other, at least for a little while, as normal individuals—cuties with a soul and a heart hiding too much pain.

We shared dinner again that night—complete with the usual bread and soup—but that particular night, as I've said, was truly special. For we shared more than company and good food—we shared our hearts, as well.

As we sat across from each other at the small round table in the open room—the windows allowing the light to glow behind her—we relaxed and savored the warmth of the soup.

With a sigh, she cooled off the wide surface of the soup, like a tiny and contained ocean, and took a sip of some from the bowl. "It is times like these that remind me of home," she said, beginning to get nostalgic.

"I'm sure."

Her eyes softened, looking to the ceiling as though she could see the memories floating above her—visions of her past and her self that still somehow remained close by. "It is such a nice home… I wonder what my parents are doing now… They are probably worried for me."

"Would you like to return for a while?" I asked, sensing she was feeling homesick. I thought it would be nice if she returned once in a while—after all, that was home for her.

"Oh…that would… It's very kind of you to suggest, Monsieur France, but I am fine staying here," she assured. Somehow, her tone was pained with melancholy, and she returned her eyes to the soup.

"You sure? I wouldn't mind."

"It's fine. I feel… I am meant to be here now," she said timidly, gingerly sipping some more soup.

My face turned a soft rose. "I understand."

It was then that I recalled with a heavy heart that her hometown had been obliterated suddenly in the fighting—right when Orléans was taken. And the town was peaceful and aligned to me. Poor cutie. It must have been tough for her. She always spoke of her hometown as though it were still as it was in her memory. Like her childhood and simple days were still within reach. Intrinsic.

But I hoped perhaps I could instill and revive some positive memories within her. "Domrémy…" I said aloud, leaning back in my seat and swirling the wine.

"It's such a nice place—I'm sure you know already," she commented.

"What is it like, though?"

"You don't know? But you…" she questioned, eyes wide with surprise.

I chuckled, "Well, of course I'm familiar, but I'd like to hear about it from your perspective." Sitting forward, I rested my cheek on my hand and leaned forward to listen to her tale. "Your eyes."

"Very well…" she acquiesced, a faint smile coming to her face.

She was born in 1412 (around January 6th) in the quaint and bucolic farm town of Domrémy. Her parents and she lived in a nice house and worked a farm. She was the second youngest of three older brothers and one younger sister. With her mother being very religious, she brought Jeannette up right, and Jeanne went to mass a lot to study and to learn about God. She also was very kind and considerate to everyone, helping in any way she can and offering to give up her own bed for guests. She's always had that air of dutifulness about her—just feeling compelled and knowing that is what she has to do. Not to show off or even because it was expected…just because it is. She enjoyed her time there and often helped with the housework and chores and farm work while also taking time to study or to play. She was very kind and friendly toward everyone, but there was also that sort of…otherness about her—where she would often just be found on her own in the garden or by the church.

She explained all this to me and the stories of her life in such a cute, innocent way. It made her sound so special. She elaborated on instances up until she was 12-years-old.

Then suddenly, she stopped, the quiet taking hold of her and her eyes turning dim and afraid. Reluctantly, she cast her eyes to the table and turned solemn.

"What is it?" I asked, concerned.

With my hand still resting on hers, I could feel her try to pull away slightly.

"That's…when I started receiving those visions." I'd never seen her expression so lost and confused as it was then. Wanting so much not to speak a word but at the same time wishing someone would listen. I suppose even with her headstrong valiance of faith, she had her troubles and doubts. After all, no one else experienced what she had.

Poor cutie.

"It all seems so…strange and so long ago now," she explains, her eyes wandering the wide room, keeping gaze away from the empty bowls and cups.

"I see."

With a deep breath, she mustered the courage to speak. "I've…never really told anyone all about them. It's difficult to explain. And I…don't feel comfortable explaining…too well… But it…"

"Hm?"

"I…don't know. It burdens me so. Maybe because I haven't ever said anything. No one would believe me."

"I don't mind listening."

The shimmer in her eyes was like a lost treasure, humbled and honored to be discovered by someone who took the dime to dig a little further in the quarry when all had gone.

"If it will ease your spirit a little. I'd like to—if you don't mind," I comforted her.

She hesitated. "You…won't say anything?" she questioned, a bit suspect.

I know she was worried, not only of what I may say to her but if I were to say anything to others. I would never do either. "I believe you. I'd just like to understand."

At my consoling words, she smiled again. A warm smile that shook away the shivers. "I'm comfortable talking with you, M. France. It will be our secret."

"Yes, our secret. And I won't tell—promise!"

She smiled, letting out a soft giggle. "All right."

Still looking to the table, she let out of soft, almost pained sigh, and insisted herself to continue. She spoke very softly, as though still retaining the story for herself. "When I was about 12, I went outside to the garden for a walk. We had a garden of wildflowers in our backyard, and I would sometimes go there just to walk or sometimes to meditate on the scriptures. But that day was different… I felt compelled to go outside, and I wasn't sure why."

For a moment, she stopped, and I held her hand between mine, comforting her.

"There…" she stopped to mull over her words. "There was a voice that called out to me as I was walking. A light and then words…almost someone speaking from the distance. It said 'Trust and believe.' Just 'Trust and believe, Jeanne.' That's all. That happened a lot."

"To trust and to believe?" I questioned, not trying to sound invasive or anything.

"Well, because I was always worried about us and the village and about the state of affairs in the kingdom. I… I was scared."

"I understand."

She let out a big sigh in preparation of the next story. "And so, I would keep going outside—because I was worried and I would sometimes pray for guidance because I was scared. And then… One time, an angel came to me. A bright light and a shadow…no, not a shadow because it was all light. A… And said the same thing. And I just couldn't understand it, but at the same time, I liked it a little because I knew it was the Lord responding to me."

I smiled. I could tell she was becoming more comfortable and lightening up a little bit. She wasn't shaking or sighing as much, and her sweet, little eyes shone with wonder.

"But I never told my parents or the priests. I was afraid of what they might say. It is technically not good to say that the Lord, Himself, visits us lowly sinners. But I believed He sent his angels and messengers to me. Especially after…"

"After what?"

But then she sighed again. "After a year or so, the Voices, as I came to call them, became more powerful. I couldn't escape them. It would come out of nowhere and tell me…"

"Tell you…?" I whispered softly, helping her along.

"How to help you."

My heart almost stopped. "Really?"

"And that…I was called to help you and how I could."

For the longest moment, we just stared into each other's eyes. Both dumbstruck and surprised.

"And…they kept coming back. The same thing each time. I…didn't know how to respond. I was worried and felt unable to heed the calls. And I didn't want to tell my parents or siblings. But…I knew there was a reason behind the messages. And that I had to heed them, but… I didn't know what I could do."

I could sense the desperation in her eyes; it was as though she had returned to those days. She was so lost and worried—poor sweetie. I wished I could have been there to help her. I could have relayed her messages.

Suddenly, she gained those confident eyes again and relayed the rest of the story as though she were demanding it to me. "But then I knew I had to do something. The May before our village was attacked, I knew I couldn't ignore the messages any longer. It had been three years…by then. I tried to contact the people at Vaucouleurs by letter, but they didn't listen. The messages I sent insisted we stay patient and not attack because the Lord would send help…" After a moment of reflection and perhaps gathering of her thoughts, she continued. "My parents were worried about me. Because I became so distant and worrisome. They thought I was in love, so they asked me to marry, but I told them I refused to marry, and they were shocked because that was the first time I disobeyed them. I felt I was needed elsewhere—this is what I had to do in life. To heed the messages of God and understand how I could help you."

Somehow, hearing her say that—basically that she devoted her life to serving the Lord and devoted her days to saving me—made me feel so warm inside. Especially hearing the word "you." It was so sweet.

"And then… After Christmas of that same year, I left home. I walked the sixteen kilometers to Vaucouleurs without saying anything to my family. Without even a goodbye." With a soft sigh, she added, "I regret that now."

"It's OK. I'm sure they understand now. I'm sure they're proud of you."

A soft smile came to her face. "You're silly, Monsieur France."

I chuckled. It was nice having fun with her.

She continued, "Once I arrived at Raxarts, I stayed at the le Royer family's home, friends of my family. I tried to plead with Baudricourt again but he rejected my claims until I received a message that Charles would be cleared of his maladie. And so they asked me to kneel before a cross to prove I wasn't possessed, and the priest said I was all right, so then they sent me to Chinon."

With a quiet, relieved sigh, she looked up to me as though saying "Well, you know the rest," and I could tell she'd finished her story. For once, her heart was so light—so free. And I, in a way, transformed and renewed. It was special getting to know my little sweetie—compelling to know and rejuvenating to understand. It was like I could reach out and touch the stars—open my arms and take in the whole world at last.

I stretched out, reaching my arms to the sky, and returned my hand gently atop hers again. "It's extraordinary. You're an amazing and special girl, Jeanne."

Bemused, she looked to me, searching my eyes for the truth. As a person, she couldn't believe I understood. But as a country, a kind of strange being who would just as easily be told they were mistaken, it was evident we held a kind of mutual understanding.

Feeling light and relieved, she closed her eyes for a moment and sighed softly. "I'm…glad you listened."

"Anytime."

"You're a good friend." She commented heartfully, cherishing the moment of understanding we shared. Gently, she rested her other hand atop mine, and the gesture made me smile.

My left hand reached for her sweet face—so young and innocent—and brushed her cheek, running my fingers slightly through her coarse hair. To my delight, this kind gift piqued her curiosity and lifted her crystalline eyes to me. My sweetie. Your verdant eyes—so beautiful and pure. No hint of the world's pain or burdens—as though she's the purest soul…a child of Heaven.

Her gaze unwavering, locked to my eyes, she shyly and curiously reached for me across the table between us. Sweetly, she brushed my face, as well—as though to make sure I were indeed real and not just a dream or an image of something ephemeral. But the lovely caress, so special, touched my heart, and the softest, most breathless giggle escaped me. Carefully, I folded my hand around hers, keeping her close to my face still, and smiled warmly.

If only I could cherish this moment forever, I thought. Spending this time with my sweetie. My love—my everything.

Losing myself in her eyes, I wanted to kiss her—to see how it feels. To take her into my arms, nuzzle her little head of sweet honey hair—laugh the night away under the stars together. To escape the world, to turn into a glimmer in her arms—to keep her close as we lie under the stars together, professing our dreams and speaking in poetry. Staying close until the morning's light comes, turning our hair to rivers of gold and our eyes to precious stones. Warm, ivory smiles that will never fade as we stay close—still—vowing never to part, even until the day when the world around us crumbles and the sky cracks to pieces and the figures turn to dust and Nature itself trembles in fear.

That we would remain.

Our love—untouched, eternal.

Precious, never-ending.

Innocent.

Divine.

My love. That I would have had you.

That I would have just given in…and held you…whispering under the unchanging stars…

How much I love you.

But I didn't.

I didn't want you to be afraid or to worry. I wanted you to feel safe with me. I wanted, above all, to protect you from everything.

And so, I drew a deep breath, swallowing all the tears as much as I could…and, blinking, trying to draw my sapphire eyes away from your emerald eyes…I let go. It hurt. It hurt so much, but I took my hand away from your sweet face—slowly. I love you. Too much. Far too much. So much…that maybe even that wouldn't be enough.

Sitting back in my seat, I turned my face away—still pushing away the weight in my chest and the choking tears gathering in my throat.

"I'm happy to have someone like you," I professed. "The other nations tease me, and we often fight a lot…but I suppose that's just the way we are. I've always felt…different from everyone else." Different is an understatement haha. "I'm glad to have someone to talk to."

Composing herself, she nodded, keeping quiet—almost reverent. Somehow, it eased almost all of my pain just to look up and see her well. Sheepishly, I grabbed the back of my neck with my left hand, pulling out until my hair trailed away. With one last sigh, all the pain disappeared. Almost.

"Well," I said through a stretch, getting up, "I'll take care of cleaning up, OK?"

"I'll help," she offered, taking her bowl.

I wanted to say, "I'm glad," or something silly that wouldn't make any sense outside of my thoughts, but I smiled instead, the last of the weight receding away. Just being beside her was enough. Just enjoying the quiet, serine night; watching the stars as though they'll do something magnificent, sitting beside her until the moon came out and she became tired. Her kind taking of my hand and relaying, like a sweet child, that she'll be all right. With me smiling in return, promising the same.

Now near November, the air turned cold and the sky a pallid blue. Bundled in a blanket and fur smock, Jeanne followed me for another daily walk. That time, we wandered around to see the nearby villages and to check on everyone. It is sort of a routine thing I do, making sure everyone is all right and stopping to notice the progress of the places and the contentedness that fills the air. In a way, I was showing her what it is like in the life of me, the quiet and loving Big Brother of the land who waits and stands beside everyone. She enjoyed that. Though our excursion took up most of the day, I found myself wanting to continue our trip—to walk to the ends of the world with her. Maybe show her where I used to play as a child or tell her about how I first made Paris or to take her to the edges of my land—to the mysterious ocean and relay her my dream to sail across there someday and discover what waits on the other side of the world. Silently hoping that maybe she'd say my eyes remind her of the ocean… and then I'd return with saying her eyes are the loving, green earth. And together…we make the world.

But there wasn't enough time left in our day. I would have made it forever. Nevertheless, I was content with the time we had, and I could tell she was getting a little tired of running around.

"It's nice to see, isn't it?" I commented as we took a short rest upon the hill overlooking the village, watching as the children played, carefreely, and as their parents minded the land or conversed with each other. It was as though we had transcended into another time—one of happiness and prosperity and not of worry.

"It is," she stated.

A nice, cool breeze came by, and the crisp aroma of late harvest and upcoming winter filled the air. Autumn is such a poetic and relaxing season, full of Nature's musings and greatest works of art. Such warm colors that make one wax nostalgic of the olden days and of youth. It reminds me of me, in a way—warm but oddly melancholic. Closing my eyes, I rested my hand on hers and lost myself in the quiet again, fading away to peace and losing myself to memories. Maybe if we hold on to this moment forever in our hearts, we can always return to our special place together. I kept souvenirs tucked in my heart so that I could always return to you, my love. To that day—to that feeling which will never fade. It's so nice…to be here with you.

"Where to now?" she asked, curiously, making it seem like that little rest has recovered her boundless energy. Sigh. Such youth. Maybe I was the one that was getting tired.

"Let's go back home—we can make some onion soup!" I proposed, helping her up. Soup would be nice for warming up on such a cold day.

Taking one last look over the horizon, I smiled and followed her as we made our descent and return for home.

"It must be interesting…" she remarked. "To watch over everyone and to be unseen."

"I like it," I commented softly. "I hope someday I can make them all happy."

"You will. Many are happy now."

Her words always comforted me. "I'm sure…"

After a moment, she spoke up over the soft rustling of the grass and the whistling of the wind, "Do you miss Paris?"

At the sudden question, I stopped.

"I'm sorry!" she pleaded to me frantically, feeling she had wronged me. "Please pardon me. I didn't mean—"

I chuckled softly; she was so cute when she got all concerned. "Of course I do…" My eyes fell to the ground, as though in attempt to reach inwardly to inspect my heart. "It's…my home."

She was quiet; we were both disappointed we couldn't recover Paris during the last battle, and I tried to get the notion out of my mind.

Exhaling the heaviness away, I calmed myself enough to return a smile. "But I'll have it back someday. I'm sure it will become a great city. I'd like for you to see it at its best someday."

"So would I."

Once we returned home, I worked on the soup while she enjoyed the day, bundling up and looking outside at the lovely scenery. The wind had picked up, and puffy clouds gathered in the sky, being carried swiftly by the wind. Often, she liked to look up at the sky. I often wondered what she would ponder while lost in contemplation.

Once the soup was done, we shared it and were blessed with its warmth.

"You make such good soup," she muttered.

Sweetie. Ruffling her sweet head, I let her be to ponder by the window. Stretching my arms to the sky, I walked to the door to step outside for a moment. To my surprise, the wind came by very strong, almost knocking me back in the house. But on the strong breeze came a small, soft cry—barely familiar as my ears strained to listen. The small cutie of white fluff came and perched on the windowsill before I could distinguish that's who it was. One of my little Pierres? What sort of message could he have for me? Taking the wide, folded scroll from his little beak, I unfolded it. A message from King Charles…for Jeanne. Sigh. What now? Having completed his task, Pierre sept (7) leapt to fly off, but the wind sent him crashing to my face, so he rested upon my head instead. I miss my little cuties. They spend all day at work—so diligent of them.

Without any words, I returned inside the house to meet her gaze. Her stare was intensive but softened by hopes and contemplation. It was as though she already knew what was happening.

"A letter came?" she questioned, her eyes darting to the rolled parchment. "What does it say?"

With a heavy sigh, I relayed the message—though it hurt me to do so. "The King calls for you."

With a sigh and a determinative tone, her countenance fell, taking on a pained look. Closing her eyes, she declared, "Very well then," as she often would, and returned gazing vapidly at the never-ending blue sky.

Worried for her, I escorted her and followed her into the castle to meet with the King. I was also curious about what he had to say. After all, it had been a while, and the last time we had all gathered, he broke the ties between us and made it seem like Jeanne had no more work or ties to the War or to him anymore. I was shaking. The worried feeling Jeanne had was rubbing off on me, and I couldn't help but be wary of everyone around us.

Once in the throne room, Jeanne approached the king, taking note of the objects in waiting that decorated the table. Her eyes were drawn to the mystical sword that rested with the armor and trinkets of her past. I could tell by the cast-over look in her eyes that she never expected to return—that it all seemed like an eternity ago and an eternity she didn't wish to return to. Nevertheless, with a soft sigh, she received the sword in her hands and looked it over as though to make sure it weren't a lie.

"What do you ask of me?" she inquired with her usual confident tone.

Charles explained, "You are to lead a force in battle at la Charité. Your armies will be small, but it will be an important task if we are to achieve ultimate victory." Though resolute, he still had the underlying feeling of uncertainty and pressure mixed with something strangely…secretive.

It just wasn't right. Though it would help us in the long run and though it may not be a big sort of siege, a small army wouldn't be enough, and we were given hardly enough weapons and ammunition. "A small force wouldn't be enough to quell them! Please! We would need…"

Jeanne stopped me, tapping my arm and muttering in confidence, both kinds, "Please stand down. He can't hear you."

I could feel my face drain of color. It was true. I'd become detached again. Or, rather, they became disconnected from me. My influenced had waned again. That didn't help the sinking feeling any.

With quiet contemplation, she pondered the idea, mulling it over. She knew it would be anything but honorable and that the whole situation now seems to be against us rather than with us. And it hurt her that she wouldn't be standing beside those she cared for. Suddenly, her eyes snapped open, and her normal, confident disposition spoke through her. "I will lead them. And I assure you, I will do my best for the Kingdom of France."

I took her hand as she left. We both treaded slowly, weighed down by our heavy hearts. But we still continued. Whatever resolve she had, I would follow. And whatever resolve I had, I knew she would follow me. After all, she never once mentioned the king's name. Only mine. That she would continue…for me.

Before the trip, we all assembled to suit up and gather our equipment and armor for the conquest again. It seemed like it had been so long. The constricting metal plates…the heavy burden on my heart. Even as Jeanne sighed and gave in, her eyes were very empty. Burdened.

"It feels like a disguise," she admitted, standing beside me.

With a disguised sigh, I put my hand on her shoulder in consolation. I shared her sadness. But I could do nothing about it again. So I added a bit of confidence. "Don't worry. I'll do my best to make up for the small fortiments. I'll do all I can for you."

But, at my words, her eyes only dimmed further. Her face only turned from me—and stared into the sun waiting in the horizon. The bright orb of hope we had to chase to our destination. But why? Then, confidently but with innocent eyes tinted with rose, she fervently commanded of me, "Please. I ask that you not help us this time."

"What?"

Before I knew it, she slipped away, leading a procession of soldiers to the unreachable horizon. I was so alone—so meaningless. I could feel myself slipping away as she proceeded further and further. So lost. So confused. So empty. But I couldn't let it be that way. Once they had hit a safe distance, I followed—in short bursts of intense running—just so they wouldn't stay out of sight. Just so I could still be there with her. Even if I were not seen. Even if, somehow, I wasn't needed.

Mid-trip, they stopped for a rest and set up camp, so I took my chance to wait at a distance, combatting my courage and doubts to force myself to speak with her. I don't know why, for the first time, I felt like I couldn't talk normally with her. It frightened and isolated me. But I exhaled the doubts away, and once she was alone, I waited close by for my chance. She had, as she would sometimes do, found a comfortable spot outside to sit and to meditate in the comfort of nature.

"Does she miss me?" I wondered. Slowly, gracefully, I crept closer until her sweet face turned to me. But her eyes were not sad, nor were they angered with my presence. In fact, it was as though she expected me to come. And was hoping I would.

With a soft sigh, I donned a smile and stood beside her. Her face fell back to the ground. "Hello again," I said casually. "Is…there a reason why you didn't want me to come?" I mustered the courage to ask.

Her eyes still fixated to the ground, she mumbled, "It is because I want to fight for you."

With her legendary sword at her side, she looked so determined. But I was worried. I didn't want her to have to force herself to fight if she didn't want to; violence worried and hurt her greatly, and I knew with all my heart that it would be extremely difficult for her to strike somebody down with her own sword by her own hand. That's why I stood with her. To protect her and to fight for her. She fought in other ways—displayed strength in other ways. Ways that amazed me.

Patting her head, I relayed with all my heart in gentle tone, "You don't have to do such a thing to prove your loyalty or pride to me, Sweetie. You already have done so by being here. I've never had any doubts. Why would I begin to have some now?"

Her little head shook, and her breaths were stifled by tears, choked by sadness. Wiping her tears away, she whispered painfully, "But everything is so uncertain. It's not how it used to be anymore. What is there that I can do?"

Poor cutie. Loosely wrapping my arms around her, I waited as the tears fell away and listened to her concerns.

"I need to do my best and to be confident for you, but I'm just so afraid that it won't end well," she lamented desperately, as the remainders of stifled tears made their way from her starry eyes.

Standing behind her, I rested my chin on her head, ruffling her sweet hair. With a sigh, I began to understand. We both wanted the same thing. I wanted to help her; she wanted to help me. Let's both work together.

"It's all right," I consoled, taking her hands from her beautiful face. "I know, too. But no matter what, I won't be mad or disappointed in you. We'll both have each other. I'll stand beside you until the end. And I'll help you in any way I can." Cradling her hands between mine, I winked and cherished the way her emerald eyes shimmered from the solace of my words and sentiments.

I could tell she wanted to say something—anything, perhaps—but by then, there were no words or oppositions to share. So, with a smile and the last of tears, she nodded in response.

No matter what happens, we'll stand beside each other. Until the bitter end.

Still worried, Jeanne stopped along the journey several times to scribe several letters requesting backup. Many of the letters she sent, she signed her name herself though they were all dictated by another messenger. Unfortunately, she didn't receive many responses, and our army remained small without many weapons. Though we had conquered larger armies before with very little on our side earlier, this time was different. What lay ahead of us was larger than any of us could have dreamed, and our hearts remained wary from the start. A kind of sad intuition.

Once we arrived, Jeanne insisted we wait for responses before heading into battle—something that sounded too cautious and far-removed from her usual manner. But Cutie felt so alone. Our usual comrades were off on "better" conquests and missions, living the life of luxury as we treaded among unfamiliar territories, fighting beside unfamiliar faces. Wading in uncertainty and mistrust. It was so cruel, and I knew her heart felt the sting. Poor Sweetie. But as I promised, I remained by her side. Keeping her safe and fighting at her side.

Planted at the writing desk, she stared despairingly, vapidly, at the wood—wishing, hoping, and praying that help would come. And come in time. It pained me to see; my heart desperately wanted to reach for her—to save her from the darkness around us. To become the soft flicker of candlelight waiting beside us and fill the world with love and light.

Sitting beside her, I stroked her hair gently, petting her velvet cheek—and she flinched ever so slightly at my touch. "Are you all right, Sweetie?" I whispered so as not to frighten her away like a little rabbit.

Shutting her eyes, she closed out the world. But kept me intact, knowing somehow I was the last light of hope trying to keep her afloat. Burying her face, she let go of a quick breath, "I don't know."

Taking her hand, I stayed there with her. There was nothing else I could do.

All these years, all these days, all I've ever wanted was to change everything. To open my arms and extend my heart to save those who suffer, to relieve those who cry, to pacify those who fight. But the world, unfortunately, doesn't work that way. It weakens me to admit that, and I despise the feeling of being so weak and helpless. So lost and confused. In the end, I've found all I can do is care. Open my heart, try to understand, and just be there for them. Anyone. Anywhere. It's the least I could do. And, unfortunately, the most.

And so we stayed in silence—mutual consolation and companionship—until all went dark.

"France?"

"Yes?"

"I'm scared."

We found ourselves plunged in the middle of battle again. We were practically surrounded and hopelessly outnumbered. I tried my best to make up for our small numbers, but I lost my strength and courage somewhere in the shadows of the fallen. It felt so automatic—desperately trying to protect myself, blindly slashing at the dark, staving away at the oncoming faces. Nameless figures with angry faces.

I felt so numb—so automatic. I forgot why we were even still fighting anymore. But just as I let down my guard, I got a bad scratch—then two—then multiple all over my face and arms. It was like everything turned into a bad dream, with me trying to stop billions of needles from coming after me. Needles like angry bees with swords. But I could do nothing; it was like all my movements were changed to opposite what I wanted to do—never reaching peace or dodging an attack. Suddenly, just as I was about to burst with anger, her voice rang over all the screaming, agony, fighting, and suffering:

"Come back! Fall out!"

As I whipped by head back to verify her words, I questioned the call, scoping to see how the others are. Of the few of us left, they all scrambled immediately to follow her, running and jumping past the blockades that were once souls. A pierce to my back verified it. "She's right," I told myself sadly.

We had to fall back—regroup—while we still may have had a tiny chance. Chasing at shadows—that's how it seemed to be. It was like we wanted to catch a falling star—after it had already faded away.

Jeanne said nothing as I followed her all the way back, as she followed our soldiers as they ran ahead, as she desperately fell into the seat beside the writing desk and meticulously helped craft more letters. Finally, she scribed an elaborate and rather heartfelt letter to the king in request for some kind of glance. With a heavy heart, she inscribed her name to the letter I penned for her, and she put her hand to her fallen head, holding out her other hand, which was desperately clutching the last letter meant for the king. Our final hope. The last one for me to send off.

In understanding, I took it from her and silently whispered a plea before seeing the parchment off as little Pierre bird took it into the expansive, cerulean sky—riding an uncertain wind.

And all we could do was wait. Even though we already knew what the answer would be. Never before have I seen her so somber—so beaten and depressed. I hadn't thought it possible. Seeing her immersed in the shadows, refusing to move or to see daylight, putting down action and insisting to wait. She just wasn't herself.

All those troubles that had been ruling our hearts—my longing to help her somehow, her increasing sense of isolation—had been at once confirmed. In a way, we both felt slighted. I knew I couldn't magically make her world a better place, but I could still stand there beside her—something she desperately needed as she waded in the uncertain shadows, feeling mocked and alone. She wanted so desperately—I'm sure—to return to those previous days of friendship and victory. Days, that then, seemed like forever ago. Too far away to reach, too idyllic to ever have been truly real.

Finally, she stood up, pushing away the chair and the desk as though kicking them out of her sight and mind. "I can't take it anymore. It's like I'm a fool or something."

I hated myself. All I could do was sigh.

Slowly, she descended back into the chair, sinking with a sigh, and quietly began to cry. She wanted to hide herself and her tears—soft sobs sounding like they belonged to a mouse or maybe a sparrow. Poor cutie.

My heart hid inside, sobbing itself into a corner. All I could do was cry, too.

Hoping to stave away the loneliness and constriction she felt inside, she went for a walk, taking to the outside, where wide-open spaces and relaxing landscapes awaited her. That morning, she was all sighs. I could tell her countenance was reflective of mine—lost and confused, wandering in an aimless world. I felt the same; there was nothing we could really do. She fought back and forth with herself whether we would return to battle.

A soft chill, the outside was a quiet escape; subtle snow fell from the sky in little puffs. It wasn't too often it would snow out here, so it was a little marvel to see. I can't quite imagine what exactly she was thinking as she contemplated and looked to sky—but, as she turned around, she was refreshed, and she looked to me as I waited by the window.

"One more chance," she declared.

And so we returned—I'd always follow her decisions, feeling I was obligated to do so and feeling her decisions were aided by God. Sometimes it felt like we were characters in a play, ultimately aided by the playwright to act accordingly. But with awareness we were doing so—oftentimes with regret when things didn't go our way. But I went on. Continually, to the end, I persisted. Because I didn't mind the outcomes. As long as I was with her in the end.

That battle seemed no different from the others at first—in the start and concept, they are all similar. It is the outcomes that differ them. As they progress. The sky turned gray, covering all our faces with apprehension and regret. In concept, it would be all right—but it didn't take long for it all to go awry. The odds were against us—I realized there was no more we could do. Just like that time in Paris, we'd leave empty-handed—only with regrets. It was how it was meant to be. I realized that. But she didn't want it to be so.

Hating to see her comrades fall so. To see the world slowly darken around us. Hope turn into nothing but a flicker on the horizon… It frustrated her.

My poor girl. My poor everything.

The world faded again—around us, around me—as I watched her call out to them. As she tried desperately to provide hope and guidance…even if she had none of her own. Suddenly, her arm fell; her head and countenance fell. She'd accepted it, too—perhaps with remorse.

I had to stand beside her—in this uncertain world, where we both stand, with everything dissolving and turning darker and darker around us. Only shadows. Taking her fallen hand, I tried to cheer her up with a smile, though an insincere one, for I knew there wasn't much left we could do.

But then we locked eyes.

My hope in the darkness—my shining star to guide my way. Those shining gems were fading away; the light dying out. She didn't know why we were still fighting. Why we continued. Why we degraded ourselves in this way. Why, most of all, it had to be this way. Why fighting and suffering had to exist.

Those eyes… They look so familiar now.

My sweetie. I'm sorry.

Her head fell again—and all I could do was take her into my arms. Try to comfort her. Stand beside her—as the world faded to black around us. As it all seemed too big for us. Too hopeless. Like two tragic characters in a play—all alone. Without the guidance or cue as to why.

But it was still us. Only us.

That's something—I thought—that would never change.

Much later, winter was upon us, and we found ourselves relaxing at our little castle or home again. That particular evening, gentle snowflakes fell around us, and all was sublimely serine. It was the perfect evening to just relax and enjoy something warm while bundling up and talking about trifles or poetry. Or just treasuring the silence.

It had been quite the day for my little fighter. She was summoned to the castle for a special ceremony in which she was bestowed gifts and decorations for her valiant efforts and her courage as she led us all to grand victories and reminded me who I am and what I mean to this world. She made me feel so warm—so proud. I couldn't let her go once we left to return home; I wanted to hold her forever.

But her attitude toward the entire affair was entirely different. She felt out-of-place. Somehow like a display or something that stood in place of everyone else's determination. Not only that, her heart sank because she knew, and even muttered to me later, that this was the country's farewell. The separation. The king had finally, discreetly but openly, sent her off with a fond farewell. I think that's what hurt her the most, in a way. It all felt fake to her—like the glimmers of something that is supposed to be treasure but was instead just something painted gold.

I didn't know whether to accept her feelings and empathize with her or to try to cheer her up and insist she shouldn't be so negative and so down-hearted. But I couldn't find the way. So I just took her hand and walked her back home as snowflakes occasionally fell and clung to our hair or melted on our noses.

Once we arrived home at my small cabin, we cherished the quiet evening, and I made us some nice, warm tea to drink as we rested. She hadn't moved a centimeter once we arrived home. She was insistent on reclining in her chair before the fire and watching the flames dance in the night. Staying close enough that she could sense the exuding heat but far enough that once the warmth came forth from the fireplace, it dissipated to the rest of the room before reaching her. Her facial expression hadn't shifted at all, either. She still kept that empty gaze of clouded eyes and the sour, beaten-down expression that at once conveyed so many burdening feelings but also safely hid everything.

Sitting beside her, I offered her tea, and she received the cup without any words, keeping her gaze forward.

"It was nice, wasn't it?" I commented.

"I don't deserve any of this stuff. It has no meaning to me anymore."

"Please have your tea, sweetie."

"I don't deserve them. Especially not today."

"Please drink your tea."

Numbly, she took a small sip, her eyes transfixed at the glowing fire in the fireplace—the embers glinting in her emerald eyes and flickering like some sort of lost hope. Only reflections then—no real emotion was ever conveyed in her trance, and she didn't have any feelings anymore. Just numbness.

With a sigh, I leaned back in my seat, searching for any possible words I could use to liven up the mood.

"Is this the end for me now?" she mused aloud. "Is there anything more for me? Another purpose?"

I wanted to speak from my heart, poetically, about how much meaning she has. But, really…she made me worry for the same. What was left for us? Really, what I wanted was just to spend more time with her. Now, with all the time in the world, we could do that.

After a moment of quiet and contemplation, she took a long breath. "I would like to go to mass with you tonight," she said calmly. I supposed she secretly loathed the fact that they chose Christmas to bestow her with gifts—making it a day all about her except she never wanted all the attention to be about her. Especially on a sacred day like Christmas—the day the Lord, Himself, was sent to the world to live among us.

"Sure," I agreed with a warm smile.

A soft sigh escaped her breath. "It is not so bad now. Now I can finally do whatever I want—and not worry about being told that I can't. I knew this would happen eventually—the separation. He never listened to me in the first place, and it just seemed like they wanted nothing to do with me anymore once Charles was crowned. But why? What did I do wrong?" With a sharp breath, she cooled off the surface of the tea and took a big gulp of the drink. "Maybe they just don't like my attitude or maybe it's just that they don't understand. Either way, I don't mind—there must be some reason it is this way. And you and the Lord shall always care about me, I know. I'm never truly alone. It just feels like I am."

Sweetie. She had to endure so many burdens. There were times she felt so similar to me—tired of being misunderstood and tired of being alone. Petting her head, I sympathized with her and suggested, "After this, we can return to my castle so you can have somewhere nice to sleep, all right?"

With a gentle smile, she acquiesced and took another sip of tea.

Whenever we stayed at my small house, she would offer me the bed and sleep on the floor by the fire—all bundled in her blankets to stay warm and cozy. I felt so bad she had to endure that, but she always insisted it be that way. She always thought of others before herself. I fought with myself for quite some time, pondering whether I should ask her to stay beside me so she could be comfortable. I would have enjoyed resting and snuggling up with her (You know, purely innocently)—dreaming together under the sky full of wishes and hopes. But I knew she'd probably either give me a strange look or reject me in her very headstrong way. Haha. But it was a thought I often had…a wish that often came to mind—that if we were close together, we could share each other's dreams and meet together in a field to play. Get away from the world and our troubles and just smile together. That's what I really wanted… Just to stay close beside her and keep her safe at all times… And even to share in her sweet dreams.

But that's all right. I was content seeing her act her normal, silly self and not as sad as she had been.

I bundled her up in warm fur cloaks, and we both went to Christmas mass that night. She was always very ardent about attending mass, flat-out refusing to miss any time—even if we were in the middle of our battles. It was very dutiful for her, and she always seemed very relieved and renewed—in such an otherworldly sort of way. She always did exude a presence of that of a saint. But she liked being seen as a companion and fellow human. In that way, we were strangely alike.

Again, that night, she was relieved and accepting of hearing the Father's words and in offering herself to the Lord. She was so humble—always willing to repent and to cast away her cares, though I was sure she never really did anything wrong. She was such a good girl.

As I stood beside her in the cathedral, I, too, felt renewed. It was a safe place—a sacred place. Somewhere I could have no more doubts as to the journeys of our lives. I was the one that needed to repent.

As we joined in song, she would sing along in a somewhat quiet but full tone—as though only for the Lord to hear if He were standing right before her. I hadn't gone along with her much, so it was the first time I heard her sing. Her singing was quite haunting, but not necessarily in an angelic or beautiful way—more in a sort of whole-hearted and soulful way. As though it was another substance that transcended through time, that could be picked from memory and played again like a record. Simple. But unforgettable because it was her. Her soul.

When mass had finished, the snow picked up again, so I made sure she was properly bundled. The soft flakes rested casually upon her golden hair, and the atmosphere around us fogged from our breaths.

"You sing very well," I commented.

She turned her head aside a little as though she were a little shy or humble to admit it. "Not really. I like the way you sing, too."

Sweetie liked it when I'd sing her to sleep sometimes. Lullabies always help me sleep, too, so I often find myself, subconsciously, singing myself to sleep.

With a smile, I took her arm and picked up our pace through the cold, and, keeping in tradition, we kept warm by humming tunes and hymns the rest of the way home.

It didn't take her long to glide into a peaceful slumber; it was such a sweet sight to behold on that peaceful night. All felt well with the world and calm in my soul. With a tender smile, I stroked her head and whispered, "Sweet dreams," while carefully bestowing a good night kiss on her forehead. Sitting up, I stretched my arms and legs, knocking away the lingering stiffness. With a big sigh, I realized I couldn't sleep still, so I ventured out to the balcony that adjoined the room.

Being near winter then, the chill had started to come over the horizon, but it wasn't too cold that it bothered me much. The night was tranquil and serenely still; the stars reached out forever in the sky, and though they were innumerable, they shined with such vibrance that I thought for sure I could count them all—or maybe just that they were all present. Inhaling the cool air, a shiver ran up my back, and I crossed my arms to keep out the cold.

I love calm nights. It's so sweet a time that I can cherish forever. I always feel oddly more in tune with myself and with romance and poetry at night…maybe the night is the Romantic's quiet time to reflect. Or the closest I can be to reaching my soul. I'm not sure. But, while I wanted to get some rest, a part of me just wanted to stay up and cherish every last second of solitude and peace before the day broke again. I wished we could stay in my castle forever. I wished I could continue to spend time with her and chat about random things while smiling and enjoying the simple things in life. I wanted so much to wish on every star that we could just have our solitude apart from time and away from the rest of the world to enjoy. With a soft sigh, I closed my eyes, and my heart pushed my wish up to the stars, hoping my sentiments would reach every one. Then, with one last look, I returned inside.

Trying my best to keep quiet, I shifted my feet across the floor until I reached downstairs, where I boiled some water to make herbal tea to relax me. As I waited for the water to boil over the flame, I nibbled on some old bread, my thoughts becoming a little dreary and spotty again. It seemed like I couldn't hold on to a positive notion for too long. Sigh.

Returning outside for the fresh air (and the tranquil atmosphere once again), I draped a cloak over my shoulders and sipped some of the relaxing tea. Staring at the grassy plains shifting in the breeze made me a little drowsy.

My sighs got lost in the calm breeze, drifting away. My eyes kept transfixed to the stars as they glimmered and twinkled so brightly, as though they were trying to tell me something in their own language. A language I, unfortunately, didn't understand.

As I began to drift away to a short nap, the grass swished behind me, and I snapped awake to look. Jeanne had come. She was a little dreary; her eyes would not stay open too wide, but she nevertheless looked restless. Like she had tried to sleep but couldn't, and her fighting to rest was catching up with her, making her even more tired than before.

"What's wrong, Sweetie?" I asked anyway.

She yelped a little yawn and responded, "I can't sleep. May I sit with you?"

"Sure, Sweetie. Would you like some tea? It may help you sleep."

"All right," she said, taking a seat across from me.

When I returned, she was staring out vapidly into the distance—as though trying to find the sun even though it wasn't there. And she stayed quiet for quite some time until she finished the warm drink.

"I kept having bad dreams," she explained quietly. "About enemies and people around me who hated me. Told me I was betraying them and that I had to be stopped."

"Scary, huh? But please don't let the dreams bother you."

She sighed heavily. The little burden upon her heart weighed her down so. "But I can't just forget them." Turning again, her eyes stayed fixed on the horizon of black. "Why is there so much evil in this world?"

I know. It bothers me, too. Searching for some kind of answer—some kind of reassurance, my heart softened, and I smiled. "Well… There is some good and beauty in the world… We just have to find it and seek it out. And, in our own ways, bring beauty and goodness through our hearts so the world can be sweeter."

Leaning back in the seat, she smiled, observing the twinkling stars. She had always seen the good in people, loving God's Creation and humanity, but all this brutality became too much for her, I'm sure. She was searching for the dream hidden among the nightmares. "You're right, Monsieur France. I shouldn't worry."

It was a treasure to see such a sweet smile again. Soft and beautiful as the stars' innumerable lights. She was my shining star.

"Thank you for the warm tea," she said, getting up. "I will try to get back to sleep again."

I nodded. I knew she'd have good dreams that time.

The winter wasn't the best time. My poor sweetie spent most of her hours moping about and confining herself to her own lonely thoughts. I'd take her to see her siblings sometimes, though often they were out fighting, and I'd try to get sweetie to smile…but to no avail. I felt worthless, too.

But it was the worst when she would cry. I hated to see her cry. The crushing pain she felt would rule my heart, as well. I felt awful crying with her, so I'd make leave of myself when she was done to go alone and cry my eyes out. Trying desperately to relieve some of the pain. To pour it all out of my heart and make it fade away into the shadows.

One day, she caught me. It was surprising for both of us, sure, but she looked strangely relieved as she spotted my tears. Before I hid them.

"I didn't think you cried, M. France. Why don't you cry?" she asked me sweetly.

I chuckled nervously, hiding my sadness and frustration, "I just… don't want to cry around you, Jeannette. I don't want to burden you."

In truth, I have to be strong. I always feel the need to be strong around those who feel pain. It's my duty (as Big Brother) to comfort them and stay strong for them. To be like the one that has all the answers and the one that has it all together when the world is nothing but chaos and lies. But, alas, my heart is easily hurt, too. Far too easily hurt. It just feels strange to cry with someone. But I guess I wouldn't know… I've never tried.

To my pleasant surprise, she wrapped her little arms around my neck and put her head to my shoulder. "Please don't feel bad about crying. I'm sad, too. You are human, as well, after all—aren't you?"

With her holding me, I didn't have any more tears.

"Thank you, sweetie. I'll remember that."

I didn't want to let go of her after that—with or without tears. We just stayed there together a while. Cherished the moments. Let the pain and loneliness slip away…

There is no more pain, sadness, or loneliness when you are safely in my arms. My sweetie.

No matter what, the flowers always return in the spring. Sometimes I worry that spring won't come or that the flowers will freeze or fade away—but once I return outside and the warmth hits my skin and the sweet sprouts of green break through the ground, I smile and recall. It is then that all my worries seem so ridiculous—so stupid and baseless. Spring always returns. The flowers always make it back, no matter how harsh and unforgiving the winter.

I had to take another walk. The fresh spring air and crisp, beautiful day with the bluest sky called out to me. Jeanne wasn't in the mood for a walk that day, so I was a bit worried to leave her alone in the castle—though she assured me she would be fine, though likely a bit lonely. I promised her I'd be back soon. I had to quell my spring fever a little; unfortunately, being surrounded by such beauty and feeling my heart swell with the symphony of spring only makes my spring fever worse. But it calms the soul.

Whispering goodbye, I shut the castle door—and the lovely day immediately swept me off my feet. Poetry coursed through my veins, and with each sigh, my body and spirit became lighter—so light, I could just fly away. There are no cares in the springtime. At least, that's what I thought.

Even though it was a far-off destination, I gave in to my heart's silly desire and returned to Paris. Something called me there—it wasn't until I arrived that I realized just what the strange sensation was. It wasn't because I was worried about Paris or because I was homesick. No—something was amiss there. And I had to figure out what it was. What once was an innocent visit turned into a shocking and worrying discovery. An unhappy accident.

There was that dummy enemy of mine conversing to his loyal followers about something or other. As soon as they came into view, I felt nauseous, and a sickening bout of terror constricted my heart and lungs. My "country sense" was going off. I was being threatened again. Something's wrong. What could it be? What should I do?

 **But don't get too used to it. It won't last long.**

No. I shouldn't have left her alone. What was I thinking? Without any logical thoughts, I took off back to home—the landscape speeding by me faster than my thoughts were racing through my mind, bracing me and impeding my tasks I should have been doing (like spying). But I was so worried about her.

Dreams in which she's hated—targeted—taken away.

No. Nightmares in which she's taken away and threatened. Tortured and hurt. Lied about…and…

It was just a worry, right?

Suddenly, the castle door was back before me, and I slammed down the barricade to let me pass. The crash resounded through the quiet castle—echoing emptiness and despair. Loneliness. But there she was in the grand hall—sitting casually and having something to drink and nibbling on a few crackers. I heaved a grand sigh, both relieved and utterly ashamed at my impetuous, impulsive fears. Of course she's OK.

"What is it, Monsieur France?" she questioned casually with a slight tone of concern.

I sighed again, exhaling the last of my frantic state and covering my worries with a simper. "Hey… I have something to tell you."

We talked the rest of the day—into the night. As the sun receded into the sky and was swallowed by the darkness. I didn't expound on my worries or my bad dreams or even my dumb ideas for us, but the fact alone that I was anxious and felt we should return to combat was enough for us to talk about at length together for such an extended time. At first, she rejected the idea. The thought of returning—as we had done once before—belittled her, troubled her. Such innocent eyes that wanted only to follow God's will and to restore me—to save me. With that done, what else was there to do? But as we conversed and shared our meal, she became much more serious—purposeful and introspective. It was her other face, the one I had known so well. My confidante and my guardian. My hope and my reminder. I had become so used to seeing her innocent, childlike, normal—in a word—that as the driven and poised persona returned, it was so theatrical. I missed her. But why? I enjoy the sweet, unassuming Jeanne, as well. The little girl. The maid of Domrémy. La Pucelle. But there was more to her than that—too extraordinary for such simple descriptions.

The candles on the table flickered and danced as she stood up, contemplating all we had discussed. She stood silently for a while, and all that could be heard was the gentle wind outside, whistling an aimless tune. I hoped I hadn't said anything wrong or sounded too nervous, condescending, or pleading in my words and tone. It just weighed me down. The fact that I was still surrounded at all sides, seemingly helpless. We were certainly at a plateau, and I feared we may lose our land all over again—even after those miraculous months of rebirth. I was still wandering in the dark forest, metaphorically, searching for a light to chase or a path to take—all the while hoping the next isn't a fausse or that I'd actually make it out of the labyrinth someday. Hopefully alive.

I wasn't strong enough to make it on my own. I never have been.

I knew she couldn't hear my thoughts, but she suddenly whipped around—standing at attention—with eyes of steely determination as though she overheard everything I pondered and was offering the solution.

"I know I said I wouldn't…and I know I haven't been to battle in a while…but I am still loyal to you, and I will follow your orders as they come." Reverently, she held her fist to her heart as she delivered her words of resolve, and she bowed to me, displaying her humility and willingness.

"I'm glad" is what went through my mind as I chuckled softly and took her hand, relaying the mutual loyalty I had to her.

But it was all a big mistake.

If I could go back—to any time—I realize now. I should return right then. And slap myself.

I don't know why, but we were granted an army of 350 and sent to Compiègne, which was about 50 miles north of Paris. My sense must have been right because I had felt (not quite predicted) that hostile forces were coming from around Paris—centered north—and approaching fast. Closing in. I was a nervous wreck the whole trip. I couldn't sleep, and for once, I could hardly eat. Jeanne urged me to eat once or twice and even had to feed me once her pleading wasn't enough. In retrospect, it was both silly and sad she had to feed me. If only it were under more romantic circumstances… Sigh. I wonder what she's saying about me now as I think that.

But I couldn't get that gnawing, sickening, disgusting feeling out of my mind as it sunk into my stomach and pried its way into my heart, creeping to the edges of my soul. It's all I could think about. All I could feel. All I could process. I couldn't take it anymore—the pain was driving me mad.

 **Don't get too used to it.**

Why? What was it? I didn't want those nightmares to surface. I wanted them to be just worries. Just pain. Just fears. They were less hurtful that way.

Less controlling.

But the battle at Compiègne didn't help any. The sky shadowed in a morbid gray, the fields wide and unforgiving as they turned dark in the shadows. Terror and anxiety wracking at my nerves. Heaviness and doubt pulling down Jeanne's heart. Everything was already an indication of how the day was going to progress. After all, the sun was safely hidden behind the thick layer of clouds. The only consolation was that the air was light and quiet without a hint of rain or humidity. Calm. Still. But somber. Ominous.

With a full inhale and heavy but composed exhale, she raised her banner, signaling for us to charge into battle. No triumphant shout. No passionate eyes. No perfectly-straight stance as she led us on. Nothing. I almost burst into tears right then; crushed, I almost fell to the ground and sobbed ridiculously, making up for the sky's lack of life-giving rain. But I didn't. I put a hand to her shoulder in consolation, reaffirming the promise that I'll always be there to protect her. The subtlest smile came to her sweet face; it was like the stars that wait among the evening's blue sky. You would have to look hard to see it—but once you did, you were gifted with something truly special and beautiful. I wanted to stay there beside her; take her into my arms and keep her safe. Take away her worries and her tears and her pain and replace it all with my love. To make sweetie smile again. Instead, I imparted a quick embrace, savoring her warmth and the coarse softness of her hair.

"It's OK," I whispered. It's OK. Not to this day or this battle—but the feelings we shared. The worries we felt. The outcome that waited. It's OK to feel that way. Whatever happens today, it's OK. As long as I can hold you in my arms.

With a decidedly audible sigh, I parted with her and ran straight for the front lines again to stave off any oncoming trouble before it goes too far. By that point, I had to be careful in my extreme speed and actions, for the others could see me. To their eyes, sometimes, I was just a glance, but most often it was a normal occurrence that I stood beside them in permanence. Somehow, they never questioned my presence. Like I was just another person.

With the morbid gray canvas as our background, we all fought tirelessly—until our final breaths. It wasn't fun any longer. It wasn't glorious any longer. It wasn't even painful or disgusting any longer. It was tiring. Bothersome. Why was I even there? Why did it have to be that way?

"Wait." The thought hit me suddenly, and I desperately searched everywhere for some kind of sign. Only to find no trace. "Where's England? Don't tell me he's not here."

Just what my raging nerves needed. He wasn't even there. Off somewhere else entirely, probably enjoying his stupid tea. Ugh. "That figures. He probably felt he didn't have to come," I growled internally. "Like he knew he'd win anyway." How belittling. It was like the prince and the pauper, and I was nowhere close to being the prince. The very thought surged my veins with disgusted anger.

And there I was fighting with all I could muster. Was I really that much of a help?

Even with a bigger army, we were outnumbered. Our days of victory and glory were long gone. It just felt like we were lost sheep refusing our guided trip to the slaughter.

I couldn't. Pushing back all the raging emotions—pain, sorrow, regret, anger, you name it—I turned away. My place was with Jeanne—and that's where my wary heart wanted to go. Where my body wanted to be. Where my troubled soul felt comfortable and comforted. Just run away and leave it all behind. Forget it even existed. Put it out of sight and mind. And run away—escape—to something else.

Poor Jeanne. My sweetie. In the middle of it all, all she could do was observe. Once again, she had that desperate look on her face. The feeling she wanted to reach out and save everyone. To stop all this madness and suffering. Overseeing and calling out orders to her comrades, in the midst of everything, her little head whipped around to catch something behind her—one of her fellow soldiers about to lose to opposing sword. Acting on impulse from her biting heart, she thrust herself forward—heeding the untold cry for help—but her effort was stopped mid-stride as a throwing spear, knocked off its trajectory, wounded her right leg. Immediately, I was at her side—to protect her from any further harm—and huddled beside her on the unforgiving ground. She looked up; I followed her eyes. It was too late. He had been caught off-guard and been sent to the floor—just a lifeless body without a soul. That quickly. The fragility of life frightened her.

Regret in her eyes, she fell into my arms, and I nuzzled her little head, comforting her silently as I tended to her leg's wound. The spear didn't do too much damage, thank God, but it was still enough that she'd have to rest a few days before she could walk again. As I held a cloth against her to stop the bleeding, she stayed silent and remorseful. All the energy and meaning in her life was gone. She just wanted to stay there with me—in a quiet place—and forget all our troubles. Like how it used to be. Poor sorrowful face. She felt the same as I did.

For a brief respite, she was so relaxed. So soothed. I thought for a second she'd fallen asleep in my arms. But then her ethereal, verdant eyes opened, shimmering, and stared into my eyes of cerulean.

"It isn't going so well. We should retreat before we lose any more men. I can't stand this anymore," she commented matter-of-factly, her composed tone disguising her worry and tears.

"Yes. I think so, too," I said in a consoling tone. Picking her up, I cradled her in my arms and ran off—the both of us calling for our countrymen to follow.

To run off—and away. To escape. To some other place—some other world.

Is there even a place like that?

Once we had all gotten away, I volunteered to take Sweetie back home—to the castle I stayed in. She was reluctant at first, but I wanted her to have a nice, safe, quiet place to rest. Somewhere close to me so I could keep watch over her. She was doing well, getting used to the surging pain that comes and goes, fighting with the urge to get up and go, recovering and resting after she's been hurt. She barely even cried that time—though I could tell she wanted to. My brave girl. She was silent the whole way home.

Once we returned, I set her gently in the big bed upstairs. Being careful with her.

"Here you are. Get some good rest, all right?" I instructed kindly as I covered her up and tied another cloth around her leg.

"But what about you, M. France? You're hurt, as well, and you had to run me over here."

"I'm fine. Please don't worry about me." I was used to getting scratched up. Plus, I was practically healed by then. "You take the comfy bed."

"But you…"

"You need it more than I do, Sweetie," I said, tucking her under the covers and giving her a kiss on her forehead.

"I…" she voiced softly, the lingering melancholic tone hanging in the air and following me.

Once she was safe and sound, back at home with me, tucked in and resting…I let her alone. Scaled the winding stairs—painful and long. Heavy. Plodding on the stone floor. Once alone, the pain seeped in—the unbearable weight caged and crushed my poor heart. The torture of depression surged through me…until, at last. I couldn't take it anymore. I couldn't hold it in anymore.

At the bottom of the stairs, I broke down—literally fell to my knees—and sobbed.

I couldn't protect her. I shouldn't have suggested this. It's all my fault. I shouldn't have made her go back to this. I know she doesn't like it. I should have known. I shouldn't have let my worries get the best of me. I never should have said anything. It was such a huge mistake—such a big mistake. I was such a fool to think I could win—be something. Fight again and conquer like this.

So stupid. I was so stupid. So so so so stupid. And I let her get hurt. I hated to see her in pain. Why? Why did she have to feel pain and get hurt? My poor cutie. Why? And her poor heart, too, taking on such burdens only I should bear.

All she wanted was to protect her people and to save me. To make me great again and to help me realize who I am. And I couldn't even save her once. I was never great—what was there to restore?

I'm worthless.

Worthless.

That's all I'll ever be.

Worthless.

And inbetween my sharp gasps and pained sobs, I could hear Sweetie upstairs—calling my name.

Asking me if I'm OK.

A few days passed, and she was recovering steadily. Though it bothered her to rest most of the day, she had become used to the idea, and she didn't have much strength to defy me, so she recuperated quite quickly over such a short time. Because she slept in a little that morning, I prepared an omelette for lunch for us to share. She was amazed at how I mastered the technique to fold it just so that it looks perfect and beautiful. Happily, she took a bite and enjoyed the light texture and rich flavor of the dish, but she suddenly stopped—intently studying my face in wonder.

"Am I looking lovestruck again?" I wondered. "What's wrong?" I asked.

"I feel strange eating all of this myself," she admitted shyly.

"It's OK. I'm fine."

"We don't have a shortage of food, though, do we?" she questioned, concerned, as she read my face.

"Well, that would be a nightmare for me, wouldn't it?" I commented sheepishly, twirling my hair.

Adamantly, she split the omelette in half, cutting through the strings of cheese, and pushed the plate to the middle of the table. "Let's share it," she declared.

"You're sure?" My eyes lit up.

"Yes, it will be enough for both of us," she said with a warm smile.

"Sharing a meal with you would be my life's greatest treasure," I expressed poetically, reaching my fork to her.

But as she, coyly, returned her fork to clink with mine, as though in a toast, the memory dissolved in my mind.

 **At that point, all those memories and daydreams seemed like only yesterday—but, at the same time, visions of a fabricated world that never existed. My days and times fell apart like threads that couldn't be put back together—that fell from between my fingers as I tried to reach them again.**

 **What is there left when one is in agony? What is left when there is only depression and uncertainty? Is it even possible that I could be happy—or that I ever was?**

" **I can't believe it's tomorrow already. I miss the pleasant days."**

 **My words fell on empty space—resonated in deaf ears. Brought nothing but more pain and ache to my heart that was already just pieces of something that used to be there. A numb lump that could produce no more emotion except emptiness. I had lamented it so much that I couldn't believe I had any tears left. Little did I know then how much more I would have to cry. That "tomorrow" would be an even worse nightmare than I could ever imagine.**

 **That it would be the last time—the last memory—I would see her. That I would have of her.**

 **So…but still…I desperately clutched my stinging chest and held on to the memories, the fantasies, all the plans I had made for escape that I could never have again. That I could never make reality. That I was too frightened to follow. I wished time could have just stopped then. That the world could have dissolved and ended then—anything. Anything but tomorrow. Anything.**

 **Anything at all but having to say "goodbye."**

Once again with the illustrious evening as our backdrop, we shared dinner outside together, reveling in the lovely day and the pleasantly warm weather. The stars were peeking through the warm, inviting sky, and the sun sat witness in the corner of the world. Such a clear evening sky… It was another calm moment.

But the quiet wasn't pleasant or relaxing. It was unnerving. For once, we couldn't cherish our special moment together. With all the worries and rumors and failures burdening us, our hearts sank to the ground and couldn't find any peace. It was so disheartening. Not knowing whether we should return to Compiègne or just stay here and wait out until something happens.

Even among those sad times, I wanted to cherish the moments with you. Let's cherish this lovely evening—perhaps the last one we may have together.

Sitting up in my seat, I said, "Let's not have this sad feeling. We should play a little game to cheer ourselves up."

"What sort of game, M. France?" Her inner child's interest was piqued.

My eyes drifted to the lovely garden that surrounded the castle—such a sweet, precious garden. Forever contained in its innocence and eternity. Magical, almost, as it burst into bloom with a plethora of flowers in every style and color. Meticulously and lovingly maintained.

"Let's run around in the gardens. We each have to find our favorite flower and bring it back to give to each other. How's that?"

"That sounds good," she agreed, gaining a soft smile as her energy returned and she left her seat.

While I was there with her, the gardens seemed to stretch on forever. The towering wildflowers, the patches of pruned roses, the interspersed species guarded with care—all reaching to the endless sky, taking in the warm sun. We walked beside each other for a moment, but the call of youth sang in my heart—and I teased her to race me and to try to catch me. And, with a smile, she accepted my challenge.

She had recovered by then, so she put up a good chase; whispers through the curtains of flowers, a ringing call across the fields. Every now and then, I could see visions of her, but I could feel her presence all around me—as though we were both beings of light. Stopping for a moment, she searched for me in the midst of the paths—where they all converged to a small clearing—and tried so hard to find me while keeping up her guard as though we were playing a game of tag. From hiding, I darted past her, leaving a trail of rose petals in my wake. As they rained down upon her, my heart swelled, and she shied the crimson rain away. With a joyful shout, she chased after me—looking to get me back. Which she did—with little violets. And my laughter echoed throughout the whole world.

I couldn't have been happier. You and me and flowers. Youth and love and beauty.

Like butterflies, we fluttered back and forth for the longest time, chasing after each other or following each other in a kind of premeditated dance our hearts shared. Circling around, wide with smiles, we each secretly vowed to meet in the middle this time—the rotunda where all the trimmed paths joined together. My target had been spotted—the patch of white lilies, full in bloom, sought for me as my eyes focused on them. As I ran by, I plucked a flower to take with me. I felt like a child waiting to bring this small treasure home to someone special. Someone who would realize how magnificent it is to my wide, innocent eyes.

The circular clearing came into sight, and I ran for it at full speed. But, suddenly, she appeared across from me, and I halted on the dot.

There we were—both standing dangerously close, the lingering light from the radiant sky shimmering in our vibrant eyes. Wide with surprise, ripe with bemusement—fascination. Both carrying an envoy of white. The symbol of purity and innocence.

It couldn't be.

The same? The same.

We both brought the same flower.

It was like my entire existence had been confirmed to have meaning. Pure happiness burst from me, and I snatched her up in a joyful embrace, laughing and twirling her around until we both fell to the ground. I made sure she fell either one me or beside me so I wouldn't crush the poor sweetie, and we ended up side-by-side—both smiling. Sigh. My heart swells to think of it now. For what seemed to be the longest time, I just held her close to me as I giggled stupidly, lost in the pure, unbridled joy I thought had been long lost. Then, finally, I rolled to my back, allowing her some space in case I was bothering her. I wanted her to feel all right; our youthful, innocent love meant everything to me if it was the preference of her heart. It meant everything to me just to be there beside her. To smile like that. Besides… No poetic wording, no amount of affection, no heartbeat, no randiose display, no sweet action, no amorous sigh could ever explain…how I feel about her.

"You like lilies, too?" I asked.

"Yes, they are just very lovely flowers," she responded, glancing over the sweetie she had picked.

"I think so, too. White flowers especially are so…poetic. So different from the rest."

She smiled still, twirling the flower around. Maybe my silly old romantic notions were just something for me. But that's all right. I just love seeing her smile. It brightens my life. She seemed so young, so renewed. I felt that way, too. As though we'd transcended somehow.

"Shall we trade?" I proposed.

Handing over the two lilies, we exchanged as they crossed the sky—so pure and white like dancing angels.

Holding on to the simple, yet elegant flower, I treasured it. A gift from my dear Jeanne. I will cherish it forever.

"It's sweeter coming from you," I whispered so gently—so softly—maybe even the flower didn't hear me as I raised it to my nose to smell the gentle fragrance.

I'm glad. We had our moment together—the quiet time at last apart from everything and everyone else. No one would ever find us here; we could remain always, untouched, in the garden of our youthful, eternal love.

I was happiest there. The happiest I've ever been in my entire life. Just being there beside her, sensing her sweet, angelic presence—among all those flowers and the warm, Romantic evening sky. It is Heaven for me. I was in Heaven for a moment, cherishing the sort of ethereal perfection I'll never know in my lifetime, being tethered to this long, lonely existence.

Absent-mindedly twirling the flower in her fingers, her face fell again; slowly, our small paradise returned to reality. Like a small child afraid of the dark to come, she turned to me, resting her head on my chest, and stayed beside me. I loved having her there—close to my heart, as she will always be. Though it surprised me a little she nuzzled up close to me—though innocently and in a worried manner. I had to keep her safe. I worried so much. I was afraid of the dark to come, too. Afraid of losing her. Afraid we'd no longer have these nice, quiet moments to enjoy. Afraid I would have nothing left. A persistent, biting fear that refused to leave my heart—even while she was next to it, comforting me as much as I was comforting her. Sometimes…no perhaps truly…I wondered if we had the same exact fear. The same worries of the same inevitable ending.

And so the sweetness, like the fragrance of the flowers, once again faded away—to the background—as our worries took hold of us again. As the sounds of the night overtook the quiet and as the sun sank further and further into the horizon. So beautiful. So special. But so brief. Too ephemeral.

"M. France?"

"Yes?"

"Are you afraid?"

"I'm terrified."


	3. Chapter 3

**Act III:**

 **THE TRAGIC DAYS**

 **The Tragic Days**

I can't. The world falls solemn; the snow fades away at last, but the sun hides behind the sad, gray clouds. Our days were ending. It hurts more now to think about it—realizing the exact amount of time that passes by before we had to part. All that's left now is memories, my undying love for her, this broken heart of mine, the lily, remnants of souvenirs, and her sword. Sometimes I procure the sword from its resting place above the fireplace and unsheathe it—contemplate as my reflection stares back at me in the blade's silvery sheen. Ponder what it must have been like for her. To feel how she felt—to try to understand. But, really, all I can do is sigh. I sigh all the time. My heart's too heavy to do anything else. I hate feeling this way—but I have to. I told myself I would remember. Recall it all—for her sake. To recall only a part of it is not to relive the entire story. But it hurts. The fire flickers away in the fireplace, flames dying away softly. My journal waits, closed, on the desk. The bouquet of lilies in the vase…waiting to stand beside her. Just as I did. Just as I have always wanted to. I…

Must I remember that day? I usually skip it on purpose, holding instead onto the moments she was alive. But that's not the entirety of the story…nor is her sacrifice the end.

Sigh… I have to, don't I? I should… Like then, all those years ago, as I promised… I must see it through to the end. To the bitter end. Always…by her side…

Forgive me. My love.

Our simple days were over. Long gone. It was becoming apparent that we should return to fighting and help the situation that certainly wasn't getting any better. Though she powerfully, miraculously, came into my life at the perfect moment and saved me from being practically extinct, the tides only shifted, and the current state we found ourselves in was basically a plateau. We could neither ascend nor descend—though that stinging feeling in my heart informed me that was about to change… And I prayed every night that it wouldn't be for the worst. We had done too much, savored and enjoyed so much, for that all to be lost in the blink of an eye.

I worried for everyone—not just for Jeannette. Seeing my people finally back to living again, enjoying the days and doing their best. I missed that. There's always something so miraculous about peace and being able to see the clouds parting over the horizon. It reminds you why you're here…what it is you're striving for. Why it is that you promised all those years ago that you would never give up. In a way, I felt like garbage going away for that short time and taking a sort of vacation watching over Jeanne and enjoying the simple times. But I followed my heart then, so I shouldn't really have any regrets.

Trying to find myself and understand a bit more as I cleared my head, I scaled a nearby mountain on my morning walk. It had been so long since I had been to the mountains to the west, and though it was a steep bit of a climb, I kept going, for the reason I was there was for the view. Lush countryside outstretched—as far as the world unfolded before me on all sides. Reaching into the pallid blue sky; running from me in wide, open space as much as the area enclosed me, making me feel safe and loved. Asking me to come chase it until I reached the end of the world on all sides. This is what I live for; such openness makes me feel so alive. I missed it so much.

With a soft smile, I joked to myself about how much of what I'm seeing is really me. If the world was really meant to be all mine or if I'm really just a small part of the land that makes up our wide, circular home. Then, I imagined if Paris were there with me, and she probably would have said something like "as much as you would like" or "as far as your eyes can see." With a deep exhale, I tried to shake away all my worries and all the heaviness in my heart. And as the air turned quiet, nourishingly tranquil, a whisper echoed inside my heart, and I realized it was the latter.

"Someday," I whispered as I turned away. "Someday."

At the abandoned castle which we stayed, Jeanne and I shared some lunch outside by the gardens. We didn't know it then, but that was to be one of our last days at the castle together before we returned to fighting. Quite cool outside, the serine sky was dotted with puffy clouds, and the clear sun sought to bring warmth to our hearts. With a stretch, I fell into the chair beside her, and we relaxed for a moment and enjoyed our lunch.

Though, unfortunately, our moment of peace didn't last very long, for I spotted a familiar blonde-haired figure in the distance who called me over, taunting me and waving his arms.

"What?!" I yelled out, jumping up from my seat. "What are you doing here?!"

"Calm down, Monsieur France," Jeanne stopped me, putting her arm out in front of me to keep me from charging.

"Please stay here and stay safe for me, all right? I'll go see what he wants."

"But what if…"

Before I could hear what she had to say, I ran off with my super speed and met dummy where he stood down the way. Though he was at quite some distance, it took me only seconds to get to where he was.

"You interrupted my lunch!" I berated him, scolding his rudeness.

"Big deal. Just thought you'd like to know your slacking off is catching up to you," he commented manner-of-factly.

"What's that supposed to mean?!" I blurted.

"You know better than to take a break in the middle of a war, you idiot! For all you know, I could have destroyed you already!"

I shuddered and turned about as pale as a glacier.

"But that wouldn't be any fun," he brushed off. "So you better get back into the game, dummy. Our fight isn't over yet."

"Will it ever be?" I joked.

He scoffed quietly, probably amused by my comment. "Well, you better watch out because they're coming."

"What?" The thought penetrated my mind. "They're coming?"

Then my greatest fears kicked in again. **No. It can't be. Not that horrible nightmare.**

 **Suddenly, they came. Surrounding her—sword falling through the air to slice the beautiful soul which touched my own. I can't bear it. I couldn't bear it.** No. I won't allow it! I must save her!

My fears had me at their mercy. Pushing him back with a swift and powerful punch, I sprinted back to her—faster than my quivering heart which trembled in pained fear. I shouldn't have left her there all alone. What was I thinking? I always need to protect her. I promised I would. Always…be there…

Please. Please be OK, my love.

No sooner did I impulsively dart away did I return—to her beautiful presence. To her sweet gaze, emerald eyes enclosing me in embrace like the shifting grasses on a warm spring afternoon. Let me lie down beside you in the grass—enjoy this lovely day together. Forget all our troubles. Let's just run away.

But we couldn't. Unfortunately, running away isn't always the answer.

She curiously sought an answer from my frantic disposition, her eyes not wavering from that sweet, innocent gaze they usually display. "What is it?" she asked innocently, staying in her seat casually. "What did he say?"

With a heavy sigh, I lowered my head and searched my heart for the right words. What was I supposed to say? I hated the thought of us returning to battle. It troubled her so much last time, and Heaven forbid my nightmare comes true. Right then and there, the only thing on my mind was "Let's forget all this and enjoy this lovely day together. Please don't worry. I'm here. You're here. Let's cherish each other."

But what would that have done? Forgetting is so very sweet, but it doesn't solve anything. It wouldn't have changed anything—it probably would have made our situation worse. Dummy Eyebrows was right. I couldn't relax and stay away forever. One of these days…we had to go back and finish what we started. I needed to live again. Return, hopefully, to some kind of peace and start anew.

And so—as much as it pained me to do—I told her the truth.

Her little head fell slightly, studying the cup. "Do you mean we should prepare to return?" she asked in a mousy, concerned voice.

I heaved a great sigh. It burdened me to admit it. "Yes."

Suddenly, my heart picked up, and I realized she could stay safe. "But I'll go fight. You can stay here. Remain safe."

But what was I thinking? Adamantly but slowly, she stood up, not producing a sound as the chair slid behind her. "No. I will follow. I know I must."

Of course. We'll always be together. Even now.

I was worried it would come to this. We had to return to action. We were being called again, and we had to heed the call. Feeling it was our last chance—our Renaissance, of sorts—we sent a letter to the King in hopes he'd hear our plea. And, to our mutual delight, he responded, saying we were welcome to visit the castle.

I was so relieved. But so worried. I couldn't understand why I couldn't shake away the worry—it was always there. Pervading everything, hanging over our heads like an ominous shadow or the proverbial dangling sword.

But we both arrived confidently—side-by-side—to deliver our ideas. On the trip, we discussed everything we'd said and a good plan of action. So I allowed her to speak for me, knowing all too well she was thorough on the subject.

In the grand hall once again, I felt so small. Against my own King, I felt like my words got lost in the wide, vapid space and never reached their intended destination. But I promised myself I'd stay strong for Jeanne. Standing up straight, I followed her—staying to her left and back a bit.

King Charles shot me a steely look—recognizing my presence, realizing the aura I was exuding was one of defiance. And free will.

"You again," he barked.

I said nothing.

Drawing a deep breath, Jeanne stood forward, without kneeling, and delivered our plan.

"My King, I feel we must return to battle for our kingdom. I feel compelled to return to Compiègne to lead a conquest there. If we win, we will most assuredly turn the tides and will be able to lead our forces into Paris."

The doubt on his face was evident from everywhere in the room. "You are certain about this?"

"As most certain as I have ever been, indeed," she returned with her usual determination, which resonated through my heart and soul as she spoke.

"Is it your Voices that have told you this?" the king questioned in almost an offensive manner, still doubting her resolve and always being too cautious about everything.

Jeanne, a little hurt by his tone, lowered her head as though to reflect on the notions of her heart and her motivation. Then, delivering her final verdict, her steely resolve returned, sparking in her eyes. "I believe so, yes. It is also the will of France that I take on this task."

I flinched a little, surprised at her addition of me, and the king looked me over dubiously, sensing my internally flustered state.

Jeanne pleaded with the doubtful king once more, and after hearing her speak out and request for the longest time, he finally agreed with a sigh. "All right. Because you are so determined, I will allow you to depart with 350 soldiers. But promise me there will be no uncertainties or troubles this time?" he requested it as though it were a question and not really an absolute proclamation that we wouldn't fail.

With a quiet huff, Jeanne closed her eyes again to reflect on the situation. It was only then that I could sense her doubts waiting below the crystal clear, still waters of her proud heart. The nerves began to gnaw at my stomach again, making me sick. "I am dearly sorry that I cannot promise you anything, my king," she declared. "All I can say is that we will determinatively fight until the end. And I will assure you I will do my best." Delivering her message, she kneeled and spoke as though it were her final words of promise. Resonating in every undertone that she meant it—and that she somehow feared they would be meaningful now.

That's what worried me the most. Did she foresee something? What if that was our last fight? My nerves only got worse.

"Very well," he returned. "You may go at once."

And, with a nod, she did so. And I, with overflowing doubts, swallowed my tears and followed. I trusted her, and I would always follow her.

It was unseasonably cold that day. A chill that resonated in my heart as we stood ready for battle once again. My heart faltered, and I couldn't muster up the courage or emotion to reassure myself that what we were doing was in fact what we were meant to do. That our paths were premeditated and for the best. I just couldn't. The weight in my heart held me down so much that I couldn't even force a smile anymore. What was I thinking? Why were we even here? Fears crept up from my mind again, reminding me of the terrorizing nightmares that kept haunting me every night and into every day. I didn't want her to be taken away. A part of me, perhaps my intuition, kept telling me to run far away—never look back. Go now. And then there would be no regrets.

But there was only one thing keeping me from taking that plan of action and heeding it. Her. It was always her. I wanted what she wanted. Always. And she wanted to stay. Her eyes were brim with determination and courage. As full as they had ever been—like before when we had stood at the top of the world together. Side by side. I couldn't let her go. Where she would be, I would be also. If I ever said to her I wanted to run away, she would have probably shaken her head and told me to believe. To have faith.

But how could I…when all I could do was cry? When all I thought about was seeing her being taken away? When…my fears took over me to the point where I knew—for certain—that it was going to be real?

When she was done leading the soldiers and explaining the plan, they gathered and stood ready to follow her commands, and she came beside me. It took all my strength to keep from bursting into tears at the sight of her. To keep my crippling fears to myself and to accept her hand in humility.

"I don't want to lose you," I wanted to say. It's all I thought.

As though she could read me like a book, she clenched my hand tightly and stared straight into my eyes—far into the depths of the ocean blue. As she did so, it was as though I could see the color reflected in her eyes—our souls intertwining and dreams winding. Our courage and compassion shared. Pains eliminated and companionship strengthened. We were no longer separate—but the same. We had that kind of intimate connection.

The tears hid at the corners of my eyes, and I brought her hand to my face, nodding, refusing to let such pain bother me. "I'll follow you," my gesture said. "Even if it means that." With a smile but hidden tears and a heavy heart.

With that, we returned to war again. For one of the last times.

The battle, again, was fierce. Neither side wanted to back down. We tred forth with determination, and they pushed us back with mighty power. Even a bigger army and guidance from Jeanne's resilience wasn't enough anymore to guarantee us victory. I guess England was sick of being pushed around by me… Well, the feeling was mutual. I couldn't wait until this stupid war was over and done.

Eyes numbed by the brutalities, heart softened by my sweetie's words, I stood among the madness and provided help where I was needed as I still lurked in the shadows and didn't want to show myself fully to anyone. My sword had felled many, but it had yet to pierce my own heart as it did then—indirectly—as I scanned the area for potential dangers.

Really, I was just vigilant for anything that could potentially hurt Jeanne as she surveyed as usual and tended to her fellow comrades. Her heart was still a burden to her; the heaviness would come straight back at the sight of the fallen, and she would tuck her remorseful face to her heart and mutter a prayer or two. Poor sweetie. Her attitude was beginning to grow on me, though, for the glory days were far behind me, and I found myself increasingly aware of the fact that I was just sick of all the violence.

My paranoia got the best of me that day—my thoughts constantly drowned me in the idea that she would be hurt—killed—by some sort of means during battle, and I couldn't bring myself to shake that feeling away. Because it could happen. And if it did, I would have blamed it all on me. And so, as I said, my true purpose was to protect her and to keep watch on everyone's movements to assure she'd be safe.

As she lowered her head in regret, she closed her eyes to reflect on life and what lies beyond—the peace that waits. The paradise where the tired and wary soul may finally rest. **The sword**. From the jagged shadows, the crippling pain returned to my heart, and the inescapable turned to life like a living nightmare—all blurred and darkened. **No**. Without thinking, my body acted for me, darting directly to the armed man without any prompt or action other than it was what I was meant to do. What I  had to do. In a flash, I stood before the murderer, a fortress protecting my treasure; and, with all my strength, made a quick and determined slice with my sword. It was almost like cutting paper entirely in half. And then—the world went red. No longer black. But red. No longer a person or a being or anything—just some sort of poor representation of objects strewn together and ripped apart. **That could be anyone**. I crumbled.

 **I can't take this anymore.**

All my strength had gone away. All the grand notions of things—gone. There was nothing left. To keep me from hating fighting.

I collapsed—fell like a lead weight straight to my knees. And all the pent-up tears and frustrations just streamed out of me like a river that had burst forth for the first time in a long time. I needed to cry. I couldn't stop myself once I started. I was a miserable, sad man drowning in tears in the middle of a battlefield. Sad and alone amid the waves of destruction.

In hysterics, I yelled out amid the sobbing, "I hate this! I hate fighting and war and dying! It's so ugly… there's nothing special about it at all! I hate it…" My voice failing me, my sobs turned quiet and pained. Everything was different now. I was different now.

Gasping for air, I covered my tortured face and continued to cry to myself, secretly hoping no one was watching me then. I just wanted to fade away to someplace secret. Never be seen again.

But she always noticed me. With such a light, careful touch, like one of an angel's, she rested a hand on my shoulder. She understood. All that time, I always wondered what she was thinking or feeling. I finally knew. But I wish I hadn't. Poor sweetie. It's too much pain for someone like you. Once I had calmed down somewhat, I turned to her—only to see her sweet face dripping tears as well. Consoling tears.

"But you are not ugly, M. France."

That's all she said. All she had to say. The wave of sadness and worry coursed through me again, reducing me to just another stupid, sobbing fool. I took sweet Jeanne in my arms—and I told her everything.

"I don't want you to be here! You could get hurt, and I want you to be safe. I hate seeing you get hurt." Earlier, she had been injured in her arm, though it wasn't very much of a wound. I hated seeing her in pain. "That could have been you!" I yelled out suddenly, my voice breaking—being corroded by the pain. The nightmares—they were all of her dying by sword—much like that incident. I didn't want that—so I jumped. Changed it. I couldn't bear for it to happen again—in reality. Before my eyes.

Ceasing my hysterics, she laid her gentle hands on my face, pulling my eyes to hers. I can't even describe her gaze. It was at once caring but entirely stern—but in an emotionless way so as to convey she had nothing to say. It was her mere presence that spoke through her. It was as though she was expressing "But I'm still here" without conveying the message in any way at all. Except being there. Just being there.

My tears immediately dissolved.

"I will be fine," she assured once I had stopped crying. "As I have always said, I will continue to fight for you. The Lord will protect me. And…I know you will, too."

"Of course," I mouthed, pushing away the last onset of tears. Cherishing having her close. Savoring her presence…the beautiful warmth of her life as I held her hand.

With a small nod and a smile, she offered to help me up and then dutifully turned away, her profile exuding light in this dark, drab day—as she had always seemed to me. To be bright. Inspiring.

My chest still heavy, I exhaled bravely in attempt to regain some of my energy. Sobbing like that always leaves me feeling so drained. With a quick hug, I whispered, "Take care of yourself, OK?" and patted her back, sending her off.

And so we returned again to our own battles—in our own battlefields. Beside each other, allied to each other, but somehow separate in substance.

But I was so drawn to her—as I had been so often lately. Just… It was just so enchanting watching her. My eyes could never pull away. Her presence, magnetic and divine, filled me with so much warmth and lifting hope. It was as though I were soaring, flying, floating away… That I could soar and see all the world's beauty from afar. That I had so much to smile about in this rosy world.

"Hey, old man!" Dummy's abrupt yell shattered my daydreams and reminded me where I was. "Did you forget your glasses today?!" he teased, probably because of my lovestruck expression, which left me with squinted eyes.

"Can't you see I was having a moment?!" I yelled back in disgust.

"You and your petty excuses," he huffed.

Internally, I rolled my eyes. He never could understand why I did the things I did. Maybe that's always bothered him. We never could see eye-to-eye, you know. His personality is just too plain.

"Well, I hope you're prepared!" I prefaced, charging with a powerful attack.

"Oh, please!" He deflected my sword and striked back. "After all the blunders you've been making lately?"

I growled, annoyed. "Stop teasing me!" My anger level had turned to seething rage in a matter of seconds. It was probably a new record.

We went at it again, trying to get past each other's defenses and swift dodges as neither of us made any hits for the longest time. I'm surprised I was still fighting then—especially after the heaviness that practically crushed my heart, stepping on it and draining it of all energy.

"Idiot!" he yelled at me, sick of our little game. "I should have killed you when I had the chance all those years ago!"

"You really hate me so much that you'd never want to see me again?" I questioned, pained. "That it would make you happy to see me erased?" There went my strength again. I dropped my guard, and he got me—but I didn't care. No cut no bruise nor mortal wound would ever feel worse than the pain my heart has to endure on a daily basis. Standing there, I had nothing left. I didn't care anymore. I was so pained but so numb that I couldn't cry.

But he didn't know. He was too busy laughing and bragging that he finally got me.

"Go ahead," I voiced monotonously.

"What?"

"Kill me."

"Why? You know nations can't really die, idiot! It's just something we say!" he protested.

"So you won't? Then I will."

"What? Have you lost your mind?" he looked at me, bemused.

"Maybe I have," I stated, the heaviness in my heart dissipating and evaporating into tears. "I can't fight anymore."

His face contorted into the most ridiculous look I'd ever seen—one of pure confusion. It makes me chuckle now to remember it—but then, I practically burst into tears. No one understood me like she did. And she was mortal.

"Run back! Come back!"

"Huh?" I whipped around, making sure those words were real and not something my thoughts returned to me.

Sure enough, my people began to flee the fight, returning to regroup or perhaps to rest. It was too much, wasn't it? I should have known…

And, again, without any thought or predetermined assignment to my mind, I just darted off—my soul and body always only wishing for one thing…to be beside her.

"Hey! Come back! We're not through yet! Where are you going?!" England yelled at me as I went, his words becoming more and more distant as I ran. Swallowed by the perils of war. But, even though the distance was far, I could hear his final mutter, "That's all he does is run lately."

Was that true? But…what else was there? I wanted her to be safe. If only we could run away… to somewhere safe. Get away from all this madness and violence…just live a peaceful life.

"Where are we going?" I asked once I was beside her. She wasn't hurt that time, thankfully, so she was at full form while running.

"Back to Compiègne!" she instructed. "We will rest there and reassemble tomorrow."

"Sounds good," I returned with a warm smile. I knew she'd never give up. She just cared. Always…so caring…

As the others mounted horses or increased their dashing, Jeanne and I lingered behind to see them off. We always stood at the back—the most dangerous place when running away—and surveyed to make sure everyone was safe. Even though Jeanne always wished to be at the end of the procession, I stood behind her instinctually—so as to take the sting of any arrows or ammo that may come by.

And that time, there were arrows. Four of them.

Just as we were to follow our army back, arrows surged through the stagnant air, and my body instinctually protected her again—standing before her, my arms clutching her in a tight embrace. Yes, four arrows. One almost hit my heart.

My breathing increased rapidly, and I hyperventilated through the pain, releasing my arms from her to make sure she's all right. They didn't go right through me because of the armor—but still.

"Are you…?"

But, to my surprise, horror struck her face, and her shimmering eyes were glossed over with dread.

"What's wrong?" I questioned sweetly, concerned.

"You…" she couldn't form any words. She looked as though she had seen a beastly monster.

"I had to," I stated, knowing then what she was thinking.

"But why?"

"I'm immortal!" I growled, the pain surging through me and forcing my words to sound menacing. So as not to concern her, I breathed away the pain and added softly, barely a whisper, "You're not."

But it was too late. With tepid tears streaming down her face, she ran away, leaving me there to wonder just how far I'd gone.

What had I become?

Stupid. That was so stupid. I was so so so so stupid. Sigh.

"What am I doing to myself?" I wondered at last. My fear and paranoid delusions had gotten the best of me. I shouldn't have let it control me so much—to the point where I drove her away. Why?

"What…What have I done?"

After that intense battle, luckily, we were able to take a rest at a camp we'd set up in Margny. With a heavy, burdened heart, I lifted my eyes toward the sky, taking in their quiet, consoling shimmers. The stars would always be there, waiting, each night, holding on to my wishes and promises with the assurance they'd never let go. Whispers and dreams winding down the shimmering river of stars…

As I tried to reach for them, a tear fell from my eye—and I couldn't stop others from following. Why? The pain was too much. I hate this pain that weighs down my heart.

A rustling in the grass caught my attention, surprising me; quickly, I wiped the tears away and attempted to compose myself. I knew it was her. I didn't even have to look or call out to receive any hint of my notion. The way her essence caressed the fields and her presence lightened the room was unmistakable. And—somehow—I always expected her to come to me. Like a guardian angel.

Sitting beside me, she shared no words as she took my hand in hers—so small and young. Touched by the work in the fields and nurtured by protective parents. Tanned from the sun and worn by the scorns of war. Kissed by the cool night air as the warmth of my hand sought to comfort her. Her eyes stayed cast to the ground—lonely and distant. Concerned.

"Please. Don't hide your feelings for my sake," she voiced. It wasn't a request or a kind idea—she truly wanted me to. Commanded I not hide my feelings from her.

My darling. Of course. If you are so willing, I will share my feelings with you.

The tears burst from me; but I subdued them to quiet sobs. As I took her into my arms, my cape dangled over my shoulders, enveloping her in a translucent embrace, keeping her warm and protected. Like angels' wings. All the words came at once amid the flow of tears and the pulses of pain as my heart strained to beat.

"I'm so afraid…and so worried about you. I'm afraid to lose you. I don't know why…but I feel like our time is short. Who would have thought, huh? That someday we…wouldn't have each other… I can't imagine a world like that." My voice cracked, and I strained to whisper, "I need you."

It felt so good to hold her then—even as I cried my eyes out. It was comforting to have her at my side and to know she shared my pain. After I had finished relaying my words in a senseless barrage, the night stood still—soft, listless twinkling of the stars and breathless zephyrs across the grass. My broken, muffled sobs and quick breaths sounded so empty and distant in the silence. Like I was far off listening to myself—or just my echoes maybe.

As she held me loosely with her sweet arms wrapped around my back, Jeanne stood still for a moment, allowing me to relax and express myself. She stayed quiet, comforting me with her scintillating presence.

"I'm sorry," I pleaded. "I didn't mean to hurt you like that. I was just so worried…" I strained through tears. By then, I was almost fully healed already, so it felt nice to have her stroke my back.

"I know," she returned, her voice sounding equally as pained. "You don't have to hurt yourself for my sake, Monsieur France. I…"

"I know," I finished her words, "You care about me, too."

She sighed softly as though to confirm my words.

"I'm sorry."

"Please. Let us not discuss it anymore. I forgive you," she said peacefully, holding me a little closer.

Sweetie. "OK," I agreed, cherishing her sweet embrace as we remained there for a while under the eternal sky. We both had each other then. That was all that mattered. "I have you now," I voiced gently. "And you're safe now."

But I still couldn't shake that feeling away. Even as we held each other and comforted each other for the longest time. Treasuring the quiet, the solitude, and the silence. The rhythms of our hearts beating in time with each other. I never wanted that moment to end. I hated the thought of letting her go.

The entire time, she had been pondering my words. Musing my concerns and cares. And she said nothing more about the subject as we stayed there beside each other. Then, she sighed. It was an ordinary sigh, sure, but it quieted me—comforted me. Grasped at my attention in a way that I found myself waiting to hold on to her oncoming words.

Our eyes met; comforting green resolute with promise and softened with love and care.

Vibrant blue curious and reaching, longing for love and understanding and to reciprocate those dreams.

Yes, my love?

"We will always have each other, M. France. Even a little piece. You don't have any reason to worry."

I've never forgotten those words. They have been my only comfort all these years. Having her tell me that she'll always be here—somewhere, somehow—beside me always. That I shouldn't fear or feel alone. I wanted to cherish and savor those words—her doubtless resolve behind them, that quiet night under the bouquet of wishes, our tight but ephemeral embrace.

We'll always have each other.

Even a little piece.

You don't have any reason to worry.

She succeeded. She got me to smile again. Feeling the pain slip away, a smile swept across my face like a shooting star, and I giggled a little as her words continued to dance in my head—echoing in my memory. "Of course," is all I had to say. I'm sure she would have said something like "Oh ye of little faith" had I said anything else. I knew then. Of course I wanted to have her forever…but mortals can't stay, can they? But while she remained…I promised I'd cherish her. Her words. Her warmth.

As I turned and stretched, reaching for the sky, I fell back and took one last look at the stars. It could have been my imagination—but I was sure they were shining brighter. With a deep sigh, I casted my cares away, a subtle smile painting my face.

"Do you mind…if I just hold you again? For a little longer?"

Sigh. Savoring this sweet night with you, my love. Nothing could be better. Just being here with you…feeling you near me…holding you in my arms…

It is the Heaven I seek amid these perils of Hell.

Knowing you care… It's very special to have you, Sweetie. Fulfilling to smile with you and to nuzzle your sweet head. To snuggle up to you in the cold. Just…knowing you're there.

Is this love? How do I feel about you? I just…feel like you and I belong together. Like you were made for me and I was made for you. That's what I feel. You belong in my arms…and I miss having you there…next to my heart—where you belong, my love. My sweetheart. My darling…

My God. I can't let her go.

In the blink of an eye, our camp was surrounded and attacked as we stayed the next morning. Jeanne was in one of the houses resting, enjoying a peaceful dream far-removed from our melancholic world. But once she heard the yells outside, she burst from the bed and yelled out to retreat and run back, almost as though she were calling out after waking from a vivid dream.

As I stood contemplating across from her, I turned back in concern, "Should we abandon here?" I confirmed.

"Let us try," she gathered her composure, tossing the covers aside and getting up to suit herself with her sword and cloak. "It won't do us any good to stay here."

I nodded. "I'll follow you."

Somehow, I trusted her decision completely. I promised myself to follow her wherever she went, and it was evident that trying to fight back now wouldn't do any good. We were ambushed. All we could do was try to divert and strike back.

"Let's run back to Compiègne," she instructed as she was prepared and standing beside me. She didn't put on all her armor, and a part of me wanted her to stay and take the time to equip, but the other part didn't have the heart to stop her determination. "We can divert them and start a return attack there."

"Sounds good," I responded, keeping close beside her as we walked outside.

It was like a literal rain of arrows outside the camp—as though the sky itself were attacking us. With loud calls, we rallied the others and mounted horses to make our full-scale grand escape away.

Jeanne always followed in the back after everyone else had gone, and that time was no exception. Keeping close by her, I protected her from the arrows, deflecting the steel rain with my sword. I kept at the parrying until she called for me to join her.

"Come on!" she declared, waving me to her.

"I'll run beside you!" I called back, still staving off the arrows. They just kept coming, and I didn't want her to get hurt.

"No!" she insisted, looking nervous. "Come on the horse with me."

The arrows lightened up slightly as I looked back to her. "Are you sure?"

"Quickly!"

I couldn't question, so I jumped on. Once I had mounted, the horse took off with extreme speed, and we were on our way—out of the madness and into the horizon of uncertainty.

The countryside sped by us as though we were taking a drive. But the journey held the air of uneasiness. I enjoyed being with her, of course, but I couldn't shake away the brimming sense of dread that consumed my nerves and chilled my heart. I hated it. It wasn't nervousness or baseless fears anymore. It was pure dread—regret for something that hadn't yet happened. It felt like we were riding straight into our doom—all the forces that had plagued us and all the nightmarish feelings that nipped at us and marred our thoughts and courage were slowly becoming reality—until, finally, they plunged into life and became our reality.

I couldn't take it. I wanted so badly to be hopeful—to believe—but at the same time, every gram of my heart knew it wasn't possible.

Somehow, we had fallen a bit behind the others during the trip. They had sped forward before we took our leave together to watch the back and keep our comrades safe. But—unfortunately—we couldn't keep them safe. Once we had arrived near to Compiègne, captured and deceased comrades amid more rain of arrows awaited us.

They knew we were coming.

I can still feel the weight that shook my heart, practically crushing it, once the reality hit my eyes. We couldn't escape the nightmare anymore. It had us in its tight grip—and refused to let us go.

"Let's turn back!" I begged Jeanne, pulling on her stiff shoulders.

"But where would we go?" she stated, eyes full of resolution.

"But…"

"They need us!" she pleaded, taking the call to action.

I sighed—a sigh which ran chills up my cracked heart.

Leaping from the horse, she called out to the others, determination glinting in her eyes and courage guiding her course. With all her resolve, she unsheathed her sword, ready to protect everyone and to do her part to fight for me. Sword raised to the sky, she carried with her the heart of gold—the shining ray of hope and the love of courage.

But it was too late. My little sweetie was never meant to fight in that way. Only in the ways of angels.

At her last attempt, she was suddenly pinned with another arrow in her shoulder—the same one, the piercing sending a shockwave of memories. A recall of all the days as they flashed by in an instant. From then. To now. Overcome by the sudden shock and the throbbing pain, she stopped right there—and fell to her knees.

"Jeanne!" I screamed to her in agony. But as I lifted my arms to the sky to run after her—to reach for her—and to start a barrage of swordplay, two extensively strong forces bound my arms, pulling my shoulders back so forcefully that they practically got ripped out of place.

"Let me go!" I growled, struggling to set myself free from the intense pull.

It all seemed like such a nightmare—such a surreal but nevertheless vivid affair. It plagues me even to this day. I was sure the world was dark that day—that the sun never existed and that my life was a tragedy born from madness.

That fiend—idiot England stood before her alongside one of his lieutenants. They both carried themselves so highly and mightily as they stood before poor Jeanne. Disgusting. They could never possess her kind of pure strength.

"We have you at last!" England declared pridefully.

Clenching her shoulder, Jeanne tried to remain calm amid the pain, but I could tell she was struggling a great deal, for she was breathing hard, and her little back was shaking. Her right hand still clutched the legendary sword, though—with a tight grip and a resolve which still flowed from her passionate heart. "You will never take me!" she professed.

"There's nothing you can do now! Surrender, and we will spare your life," he said.

"I would rather die than surrender to you!" she blurted.

"No!" I screamed, my voice breaking from all the stress. The weight on my arms increased—more men came to hold me back from rushing to her. I was a raging tiger ready to be set loose and to rampage.

"That's not an option!" the lieutenant spoke up. "You must surrender and pledge loyalty to England!"

I have to go—she needs me. Let me go! The weight—it was everywhere. The pain, inescapable. How could this be? **Why couldn't I save her**?!

Slowing her breathing, she feebly lifted her arm, willing with all her might to raise the sword to the sky. But she found her strength not there—but in her heart. "I told you I will never surrender or pledge loyalty to you! My loyalty belongs to the Kingdom of France!" It wasn't until then that I noticed the hint of brashness in her voice—true anger and resentment which I had never heard tinge her tone before. It didn't seem possible to me…that she could hate or get angry like that.

Continually, she refused to give in, and finally, they sighed and called two men to come with chains.

"No!" I yelled out, my voice tired and feeble, as I was still battling the forces holding me back adamantly. There must have been at least ten of them trying to keep me back by then. My fury and determination were so much that I would have destroyed the world then. Anything— **anything** —to have her back in my arms. To protect her. For them to take me instead.

"Lock her up," England demanded.

"No! I will not be taken prisoner!" Jeanne still fought, shaking and flailing about as they tried to take her arms in chains.

"Take her away!" England called, rallying the troops.

"No!" My call echoed across the world like a bomb, shaking the ground as I plunged finally from the incessant pulls constricting my arms.

"I'll save you!" I promised in my thoughts as I ran to her—in this dark, uncertain world. My sword ready to take down all those in my way. I hate this dark, sad, tragic world—let's fill it with hope again! Together! We will fill it with hope and make everything new again! We will live together…the both of us.

I don't know why—but my sword slipped from my hands as I thought of her. My hand reached out—so as to grab her and take her with me. For us to escape—for me to hold her, perhaps. Is that what I really wanted? Just to run up to her and hold her? She looked so scared and so marred. I hated seeing her like that…my shining star so dim. I'm here…

But that was the last I saw—her wide eyes and scratched face and petite figure clad in armor. Her arms wrapped in chains like angels' wings clipped. The soft sparkle of shine left in the depths of her verdant eyes… Before I was knocked out by a sharp and swift blow to the head. And fell…unceremoniously—like descending into madness and darkness—to the shadowed ground.

I couldn't save her. What good am I?

I…failed you. I'm so worthless. Worthless.

I'm sorry, my love.

I…

Where am I?

Everything is so clear but fuzzy with light… The warm, inviting sun is clothed in pure white—so bright but so beautiful, as well. Tinting everything in warmth and softening the edges of the outstretched fields—as though I were in an Impressionist painting. The fields, dancing and free, are dotted with flowers, lying close to the grasses and amid the shifting greens so that, if you were to take the time to look, you would be rewarded with the pleasure and beauty of occasional colors. But the delicate scent of the harmonious aromas perfumes the entire area, lifting my spirits and giving the feeling of being in a rêverie.

Is it all a dream?

Clothed in a pure white robe, ruffling in the gentlest breeze like a dress, she stands among the flowers as they reach for her, smiling, as the wind nudges them back and forth. With a cascade of gorgeous, straight blonde hair, like the sunset reflecting in the ocean, she turned to me. Ah, such beautiful eyes. Nothing of substance or anything produced by man in such an impure world could ever come close to the pure, untouched beauty of those emerald eyes. Soft porcelain face, beaming with a smile, innocent and loving. Like an angel, she glides across the glades, coming to me. But I'm unworthy. Beaten-down. Sitting in the grass, smashing the ground and desecrating such a lovely place. Could I really be as beautiful as you?

Standing before me, she offers me her delicate hand. You want to help me up? May I? With half a breath, I accept, and she spins around as I stand, as though we were in dance. The sun's light had faded; it's really her that brightens this place. The white dress. The golden hair of sunlight. Eyes of beautiful nature.

Reaching for the ground, she plucks a flower from its resting place; putting it to her face, she blesses it with a soft whisper, cherishing its gift it has given to the world before she passes it on.

"Here you are," she declares, twirling around to meet my bemused, suspended gaze. "It is a white lily that has yet to bloom."

As I accept the flower, the sun recedes into the horizon behind her, its light fading away, dissolving into the sky and painting the blue canvas with a myriad of subdued colors.

A gentle smile comes to her face. "Please take care of it for me."

Before I have the chance to nod or to speak with her or even to return the promise…

Unfortunately, I woke up.

"Jeanne!" I screamed. It sounded like all my agony had burst from me in a single word. All at once, I was plunged back into reality—my dark world. I was back at the field, with her before me, the world falling to gray all around us. And me standing in the grass, desperately reaching for her—until everything went dark.

Except I wasn't there when I finally came to. I was lying in bed in my lonely room of my lonely house—frantic and hysterical.

Some of the soldiers that had accompanied us stayed with me, and upon seeing me wake and thrash about, they attempted to calm me down.

"Where is she?!" I screamed madly, jumping out of bed, blue eyes seething with anger like raging seas ready to swallow the world.

"We can't tell you," one of them said as they all stood back and put up their arms defensively.

Ugh. That burned my heart. How dare they say that?

Stomping to them, I slammed the door, locking them out of my life. With pure, blind rage, I pounded the mattress and paced the room, trying to make sense of all this and where I am. And also trying not to destroy everything in sight with boundless anger.

But then, as I turned around in my frantic state, something beautiful and white caught my eyes. It called to me. Calming myself, I shuffled over to the desk. Sigh. There it was. The white lily she gave me when we played together in the garden. Its distinctive aroma flowed through the room like a guardian spirit; the petals and stem were still so cool and crisp as though it had just been freshly picked. Closing my eyes, I held on to the scent, to the memory, those days, her presence. That flower reminded me of her—brought her there beside me again to comfort me. To love me and to console me. My light in this dark, uncertain, and lonely world.

The others must have noticed the quiet and that the hostile mood had been blown away by a gentle breeze because they peeked through the door and watched me, as though waiting for me to speak. Or maybe just because they were concerned because I had been lost in that trance for the longest time—just treasuring her sweet soul.

Calmly, almost unemotionally but fully hurt from being apart from her, I questioned again, "Where is she being held?"

"She is at a fortress in Clairoix," one young man responded. "But we don't recommend you go. They might catch you there."

It was such a relief to know she was still alive. But it hurt me even more somehow to know she was apart from me. The lily, itself, seemed to beg me, "Go see her," and I couldn't just mope around the house knowing where she was. Knowing she was out there somewhere—sad, perhaps lonely and confused. But that she was there. It was such a comfort. It was such a sweet experience—like I had a purpose then to fulfil. I had to go. I had to see her.

Taking the lily with me, my heart fully determined, I passed them all by and left my house for Clairoix—not saying a single word as I left and took the trek the whole way there. With my heart uneasy but courageous, and the lily keeping me company, easing my lonely soul.

Finally, I arrived at the fortress at Clairoix; when I had arrived, it felt like a trip through eternity and noncombatable forces to get there. An impossible battle for an impossible dream. The fortress was shadow-like and gray, a stone tower that reached just far enough to be labeled as tall. It was then that my heart failed me, and I almost fell apart from weakness—as though I had been drained of all my energy. It was like I was going to prison. A prison. How is that even possible? My little cutie…holed up in there?

I didn't know how to respond. Was it all fake? Maybe I was still dreaming some kind of twisted nightmare? I didn't even know how to respond or what to believe anymore. But I knew I was there for a reason. Led there for a reason—by something or someone. And I knew she was there. Not just because of what I had been told. Not just because I was led here and because the tower did, in fact, exist. But because a little flicker of hope lit in my heart the moment I came near this very spot. As though I were tracing her delicate steps as she skipped away… No. Her pained steps as she was forced inside the fortress. Sigh. How disgraceful.

With a quiet but heavy sigh, a sigh that was meant to resound across the land but instead made no sound, I tucked the lily into my shirt, keeping it close to my heart, and casually walked inside the tower. I passed everyone by—paid no notice to the guards. Hid myself from the world…and maybe even from myself. It was so surreal. I dragged my hand along the stone tiles as I walked the corridors, ascended the stairs…as though I were still unconvinced I was really there. That it was really there. That she was really there.

I blindly, aimlessly, wandered around until I stopped dead in my tracks, realizing I had been subconsciously led to the top floor—to a small room behind a wooden, enforced door. With a quick pry, the door opened to me, and I nearly fell down the stairs because it opened out to me instead of into the next room. This was it. I knew it was. My breath shook, and my heart pounded—but from apprehension. I staggered a sigh…and walked forth, closing the door behind me.

It was terribly quiet. As though we were the only ones in the entire building. Maybe even the whole country. A cell wall surrounded the entire room, blocking off any sort of hope or any idea of anything besides captivity. A small window provided some light but made the room even more stagnant than if there weren't a window. It just reminded me how closed-in this small space is. How hopeless it felt… How…

Clothed in white, a small figure sat facing the wall, face buried in folded legs, breathing very steadily and making no noise. It's her, isn't it? My caged angel. Even her light couldn't relieve the burden this room brought to me. She looked so sad and lonely—so isolated. Like all her troubles had manifested and sent her to this awful place. But it wasn't her fault. Nothing was her fault. She didn't do anything. Nothing but dream and inspire me. Remind me who I am. Like the flowers that grew no matter the circumstances, she reminded me how to live.

I couldn't tell, but it almost sounded as if she were crying softly. Maybe stifling the sound with her face in her knees or just trying not to cry in the first place. I stood there for the longest time just watching her. Realizing it wasn't a dream, but what could I do? I needed her. Even though it was hard on me to see her like that… I needed to see her. What else could I do?

Suddenly, she lifted her head and let out a despondent breath, stretching out her legs and arms and getting off her seat on the cold, hard floor.

I missed you.

Standing, she continued to watch the wall for a second or two before turning her head over her shoulder curiously. Such beautiful eyes. The only warmth of color in this wretched world of pain. Wide with surprise, she spun around quickly and ran to the bars, pleading me in a whisper, "What are you doing here, Monsieur France? Please go before they catch you, too!"

"So? Let them. Then I could stay here with you."

"No! You don't mean that! Please…" she pleaded once more, wrapping her small hands around the bars.

"I do mean that. What's my life without you?"

"You still have a chance! Why did you come here, anyway?"

"I just wanted to see your face again."

Finally, she sighed exasperatedly, tired of my silly, somewhat vapid responses. "You were worried, aren't you?"

I smiled. "You know me so well, don't you?" At her unamused expression, I tried to lighten the crushing pain in my heart that was dragging down my true responses. "Of course I was," I broke through a whisper.

At this, she said, "I knew you would be," and closed her eyes, lowered her head, and turned away to the wall again, though staying nearby the bars. And nearby me. "Please don't be. I am fine. I can look out for myself here. They do not mistreat me, and I am fed regularly, so I feel fine."

Gradually, I stepped closer to her.

She lifted her eyes to the ceiling. "I don't mind being held here. I know it is the will of the Lord for me. Please don't try to break me out or save me because it will only cause more trouble. I don't want them hurting you, too, Monsieur France."

Closer.

Her sweet eyes turned to me, and she put a hand on the bars again, looking so young but so pained. As though she truly requested this with all her sweet, big, beautiful heart. "I am willing to stay here for your sake. So please. Let me be."

There you are.

Cautiously, weakly, like a leaf unfolding slowly, I wrapped my hand around hers, cradling her in comfort. If only I could hold her. If only I could stay with her. If only I could have saved her. All the tears that had been waiting in my beaten, broken-down heart began to fall like summer rain, trailing down my face and into the cold stone below my feet. "I'm sorry…" I lamented, crying through pained, nervous laughter. "I'm sorry," I pleaded, breaking down crying. "I'm sorry," I forced through broken voice.

"It is not your fault, Monsieur France," she said with her usual air of commanding—but with a gentleness of love. "It's no one's fault. It is how the Lord meant it to be."

How broken I am. Can I even still love you with a broken heart?

Searching for her through my teary eyes, like rivers of sadness, I reached for her other hand and placed mine between her small hands again—the symbol of trust. It was like a soft whisper between us amid the crushing burdens of the world. I promised I would heed her words. I couldn't bear to see what they would do to her if they saw she had escaped. I couldn't bear to be responsible for that. I couldn't bear to see her be hurt. If she says she's fine, I believed her. She's fine. I just hated knowing we'd be apart. That was the worst crime of all.

I kept her close to me—the gesture of trust—your warmth filling me. Your presence keeping me safe. And searched her eyes—such lovely gems; they shall never be tarnished. I wanted to keep the color of her eyes, the way they shimmered like stars, in my mind forever. The way, if I searched beyond the initial color and found myself nestled in her gentle soul, they almost shimmered a quiet hue of violet. A tender, warm tint of rose. And, if I may be so brash, mademoiselle… the compliments of the bright ocean blue you so seek, as your eyes reflect mine. As we both seek each other. My God I'll miss you. I love you.

With a swift nod, I relayed my promise. And rested my forehead to the bars, wishing to kiss her sweet forehead. "Stay safe," I'd say. Like a daddy seeing his little girl off to preschool. Or something so ridiculously stupid like that. But she rested her head beside me, too, nourishing my soul. So that I could part. Oh, but it hurts to leave you like this. It's maddening. Why?

I could barely reach…but I gave her a soft peck to her forehead. Sweetie. I gave you my charm, my love. And…wishing I wouldn't have to go, I slowly…slowly…pulled away. Drawing my hands back…feeling her gradually slip away…like the last of the autumn leaves detaching and whispering away from the trees…being carried by the cool autumn wind.

I never said goodbye. Because it wasn't. I refused for it to be.

But I forced a smile—a smile tinged with all the sweet memories she gave me. The beautiful bouquet I was left in my heart as I cherished her presence. Her sweet smile. Her golden, sunrise hair cut short as it swept across her cheeks. Her beautiful eyes like the land we traversed and sought to keep. All this is what I saw as I left—closed the door on the past and the altered reality. It wasn't gray and dark and cold.

No. She was warm and sunny. Always.

That's what I saw, anyway. Made myself see.

Before I broke down and cried.

I ran all the way home—eyes streaking with tears. I kicked everyone out of my house and just stayed there. For days and days on end—never seeing daylight. I couldn't bear leaving. I couldn't bear coming to terms with reality or knowing what would happen. Everything was just a world apart from me—something broken and fabricated. Even worse than the hole I had made for myself in that cramped room of mine at the house. Dark, stagnant, and depressing. In a sense, I had locked myself up, too, subconsciously. We were both imprisoned. But I imprisoned myself.

Three days passed, and Jeanne was sent to Jean de Luxemburg's castle in Beaulieu-les-Fontaines, a small commune north of Paris. At the same time, a notice was given to her parents that she had been put on ransom for basically an insane amount of money. Her poor family was despairent because they couldn't afford the ridiculous ransom price (I couldn't even come up with the funds—not that they would let me), and I hoped they wouldn't move her any more because I would often sneak out at night and stand at a distance, observing and watching over her secretly. I liked knowing where she was. Even if I mainly stayed home and cried all day.

I couldn't bring myself to do anything else. I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep. I could barely move half the time. Mostly, I felt like a phantom floating through life—like a shadow haunting the land, cursing everything I touched and condemning the ground where I walked.

 **Is…this insanity?**

Words spiraled in and out of my head—the events of our time together kept repeating over and over like I was frantically putting everything on rewind. For some kind of meager chance to learn what I did wrong. If I did anything wrong. What I could possibly to do help. If I made a good impression on her. Did I say anything wrong? Do anything wrong? What did she think of me? Did I do all I could?

Sigh. I had so many regrets.

And, of course, I couldn't stop worrying. It was inevitable that those fiends would do something to her, and the very thought of her being tortured just ripped my heart and soul to shreds. I couldn't bear the thought—but I was constantly plagued with nightmares to the point that I was practically crushed and in rags before anything even happened.

I was a wreck. For the next entire year. Let alone those first few months.

But I still (forced myself to) took walks at night to clear my head and to lose myself in the night's serenity. The tranquility and carefree feeling. To wish upon each star for her safe return. I often pondered whether she would be staring at the stars with me—and whether she would be thinking of me as I thought of her. Perhaps the stars could carry our messages to each other. I still liked to dream. Dreams were all I had.

I would always dream about running away. It was a ridiculous but very real fantasy I had—especially then. If only I could take her in my arms—sweep her away—and take her with me somewhere far, far away. To rescue her and give her a place to stay and live. Somewhere to be happy and to smile…somewhere to dream and live the life she always deserved. A simple life. Without worries or cares… (with me)

But how? Where? Where would we even go? You can't run away completely, can you? And I couldn't just leave my country, I suppose. But how desperately… I just wanted us to run and run and to forget it all—leave it all behind—until it is nothing but a memory. A glimmer. A vague recollection.

But my heart knew it was just a cry from a desperate man. I could never pull off such a frivolous stunt. It would make everyone angry at me, and not only that, there really was nowhere to go. The reality was steep. My intuition told me that even beyond the vast expanse of blue wasn't an option. But why? I had always wanted to visit there—to traverse the ocean to see what's beyond. I wish she could have come with me.

Sigh. What's the use?

And once I had had enough dreaming—and once my dreams were properly crushed—I'd return home once again. To try to sleep that night. Ugh. What a miserable life.

After I had my fill of moping, I promised myself I would visit her again, for I could tell from the last time I dropped by that she had something to tell me. There was just something hidden in her eyes, and I wanted to know what it was. My top priority was for her to be safe and to feel safe, so I was very worried for her. I dropped by once in a while just to ease my soul even though she told me not to come. But she never complained when she saw me standing before her. Once again together in the quiet room, I treasured being beside her once again. Though I could tell she was unhappy.

Her beautiful eyes had turned vapid—almost gray—and wouldn't leave the floor from the moment I walked in to see her. And the silence of the room, colder than the stone building we were in, was almost maddening.

Without any sort of prefacing sigh or breath or anything, her words announced themselves proudly from the silence. "I'm being put on trial for my crimes."

What? It was the most nonsensical thing I had ever heard; for a moment, I thought poor Sweetie had lost her mind. But the sternness on her face was undeniable.

I scoffed loudly, still unable to understand. "What crimes?"

"The trials are to start soon," she continued vapidly.

"But—you must be kidding! This must all be some kind of joke!" I yelled out, still taken aback by the entire idea.

At my hysteria, Jeanne stared straight into my eyes as she continued to sit upon the ground and twirl the cloth of her white cloak. The look in her eyes was unmistakable. She wasn't kidding at all; neither were they.

At this, I burst into tears. How was it even possible?

"Please don't cry, Monsieur France. It doesn't mean anything."

"But it's you!" I shout, the tears being replaced by anger. "You haven't done anything wrong! You're always following what God says, and you saved me! You saved my life! And gave me a reason to live and to keep on living!" I rambled on and on, pacing the room, emphasizing each new addition to the list as though it were some kind of brilliant breakthrough or foolproof evidence of her innocence. Kneeling, coming up to her, I stayed beside her a while, and she lifted her hands toward the bars so I could grab them. Hold her. Her sweet, innocent, little hands. "And you're a great friend and…you…"

You've always been there for me…and I love you. You're the light of my life. You mean everything to me. I love you with all I have… I wish I could take you away somewhere with me… Somewhere special. Forever.

But I couldn't have said that. Not now. It wasn't the right time; it would only make it all the more tragic. All the more stupid and romantic. I didn't want to burden her. Besides, I knew she wouldn't want to run away with me. She would say it's illogical. Especially then. And it was.

Her eyes turned gravely melancholic—as though she could sense all my pain—and she gradually slipped her hands away from me. "I will be fine. I promise." Returning her gaze to the floor, she conveyed, "I would rather you not come to the trials. I know it would hurt you."

"But…I want to be with you," I voiced in barely a breath.

"Monsieur France…" she said not in a strict tone—but it still did its purpose of quieting me. "You protected me then…and now it's my turn to protect you."

She meant to protect me emotionally. She knew by then how fragile I was emotionally. I guess it didn't take too many instances of my bawling my eyes out for anyone to catch on to my tragic, little secret. But it was really just her. I cried all the time worrying about her. She's my everything.

I chuckled a little to myself, surprised at how well she understood me. "I understand."

As though we planned and rehearsed it, we both stood up at the exact same time—even at the exact same speed. She placed a hand on the bars but kept her eyes lowered—almost as though she were checking on my heart, watching it with a concerned expression on her face.

"Be strong for both of us, OK?" I said, ruffling her hair. In all that time, her hair had begun to grow a little—now rolling down to her shoulders and gaining almost a slight wavy curl amid the frizz. Such a cutie.

She nodded, gaining a little smile. "Indeed. I will."

My sweetie. I'll really miss seeing you, you know. It hurt me to leave then. I wanted to stay all day—all the time if I could. But I didn't want to put cutie in danger. She was right to assume I would probably start a riot at the trials or something—because I probably would have. I loved her so much. I hated for anything bad to happen to her. But, at the same time, I knew she wanted everything to be in God's hands. Whatever it was He wished for her.

But I missed seeing her. And holding her and just…being there with her. As I stood there, turning away to the door, and feeling so awful I'd be leaving her behind.

"You know…" I breathed, another sigh shaking out of me as though it were stumbling past all my pain, "I wish I could hold you just one more time."

She gave me that cute look—the look of the innocent girl. She reached her arm out towards me, and I almost ran right into the bars running to her. But I couldn't really reach through to hold her. I just took her hands and tried to nuzzle her sweet head.

"Be strong," I whispered again. "Be strong."

That time, I really didn't want to leave. I wanted to feel her near me forever. To cherish her warmth and care. I really wanted to hold her in my arms again.

And…unfortunately…I later got my wish.

Throughout those troublesome months that came together as a barricade and made up that troublesome, depressing year, I was devastated. I was even more of a wreck than I was before, and I was so worried for my dear love. All alone—scared and worried. I could think of nothing else but her.

Especially after that fateful night we met again much later.

One night, I went out for another walk, seeking solace and understanding from the stars. My heart wasn't as heavy, and I made myself something to eat before I left, so my head wasn't swimming as much as it had been. I had a terrible, surging headache from crying, though. As the stars and half moon lit my path, I wandered a bit before being compelled to see her again—just to stand outside the building at Beaulieu-les-Fontaines, maybe to peek through the window, just to be there beside her. Perhaps to catch sight of her.

I don't know why exactly, but as I walked along, I felt as though I were pulled into a dream—and I could sense her sweet presence on the air, lightening the atmosphere and tinging the air with the scent of flowers. After a moment, I cherished the thought as a kind of fantasy, knowing that she most likely wasn't there, but it was a nice thought to treasure. The possibility that she could. And I continued to expound on my fantasy until I arrived at the fortress.

Through the silvery shine of the moon's glow, the shadows were swept away, and a hint of gold stood out among the swaying grasses. Angelic. Graceful. Wait.

"Is that her?" I wondered to myself, my pace instinctually quickening beyond my will to catch up to her.

At the sound of swishing grasses, she yelped like a frightened dog and turned her head away, covering it with her skinny arms. "I'm sorry! Please! Have mercy!"

"It is her," the words spoke through my heart. It was so pleasing to hear her voice again. Refreshing as a drink of cool water from an oasis after trekking strenuously through the endless desert. "Jeanne?" I called softly. "It's just me. Are you all right?" I reached for her, resting my hand gently on her arm.

At my familiar voice and my soft touch, she lowered her guard, revealing her wide, curious, and rather relieved eyes. "Monsieur France?" In the depths of her verdant eyes, she was delighted to see me. On the surface, she was—as she always was—perplexed. "Why have you come?"

I chuckled. "What are you doing out here, silly?"

"I…well…" she fumbled for the right words, lowering her face to the shadowed ground.

She was clothed in her riding outfit again, something that then was suited only for men to wear. She said she preferred the outfit because it made her an equal to boys and kept them away. She wasn't fond of the men's conduct and felt safer in the outfit. They weren't making advances on her, were they? Poor sweetie. But the clothes suited her, and her long hair gave her a sort of distinguished presence.

Then the cold, hard truth sunk into my heart. She was running away. There must have been a reason. Were they torturing her? Prisoners or boys bothering her? Refusing to feed her? Maybe she just wanted to return home—as she had always wished? Maybe…she was going to run away without me? Or…maybe invite me along?

"Wait. You're not running away, are you?" I softened my urgence with a whisper. "That's dangerous! What if they catch you out here?"

"I know. I was foolish." She hung her head in shame.

"But why?" I questioned, my words filling with concern. "Are they hurting you?"

"No, they are not beating me."

"Boys bothering you?"

"Sometimes, but the Lord keeps me safe."

"Then what is it, Sweetie?"

For a moment, she turned away and listened to the quiet of the night, perhaps to find the right words or maybe to muster the courage to tell me her emotions. Then, amid the swishing of the night breeze, her pained tears and sniffling drifted to my ears. "They are torturing me. But emotionally. The trials are terrible! They are changing my words and asking me questions using terms and things I don't know! And they ask me to read and write—and I cannot do either! They are driving me mad, and I am beginning to believe that perhaps I am mad! Or that I was all along!" Hurt, she burst into tears, covering her face and trembling from the pain.

My poor sweetie. "I'm sorry." I brought her into my arms. A light but loving embrace. "They shouldn't be doing that to you. Don't listen to them. You're always so confident. I could always tell your words and actions were true. You inspired me. I don't think you are crazy."

She sniffled the tears away. "Really? You don't?"

"Of course not. You saved my life." Tracing her beautiful face, I dragged the tears along with me and locked them away—hoping that would make her smile again.

"But…" she continued tearfully, "the Voices… They have left me. There is no one with me anymore. I wonder oftentimes whether the Lord really is with me because I feel so alone, and these events are torturing me so much. Why would He will this on me? Do I deserve it?"

"Don't say things like that, Jeanne."

"But I know nothing anymore. What…" she choked on her tears, and I held her closer to my heart. "What is true anymore, Monsieur France?"

I sighed. She really had been through a lot, hadn't she? My poor cutie. So young… How could they have done this to such a bright, young girl like her? Monsters.

I stroked her back, letting her get rid of the last of the tears. "It's all right. I know who you are, and you do, too. In your bright, passionate heart. They can't take that from you—even if it seems like they are. Don't listen to them. You have done so much good, and you are one of the Lord's most special children."

"Oh…I wouldn't say the most special. But you really believe He is still with me though the Voices have gone? And that He will aid me if I ask?" she questioned, her eyes peeking up to me.

With a warm smile, I declared, with a quick nuzzle, "I'm sure He will because you're a beautiful, strong, bright, and determined young lady."

She made an odd noise like a sad squeak mixed with a joyful, stifled giggle. Snatching my hand in hers, she held it to her cheek, still stricken by tears, and expressed, "I'll never forget your kindness, Monsieur France."

With a soft smile tinged with a love-struck giggle, I returned, "I'll never forget you." Returning the gesture, I took her hand which was latched onto mine and held it to my face. All the while trying not to cry from a strange mixture of pride, sadness, melancholy, and pure joy stemming from our mutual fondness.

We stayed there for a while just cherishing each other's' company. It was lonely being apart—especially after the days we spent together. It felt natural to be together. Maybe she missed me, too. Actually, I know she did. It was so life-giving to have her with me again. All the pain and sorrow and madness just fluttered away, and a big smile burst on my face. I couldn't contain the joy I felt with her.

"Come here, silly," I said, giggling. I took her in my arms and gave her a big hug, all the while laughing joyfully that I had her back. The meaning to my life. The reason my heart kept beating despite the horrendous pain it experienced. Nuzzling her head and spinning her around a little, I felt content and happy showing her some of my love and care I'd always wanted to share with her. Sweetie.

Her face lit up, as well, with a beautiful, full smile like a garden in bloom. "You always make me feel better somehow, M. France."

"I do?"

"Yes. It gives me hope to see you smiling."

"You like my smile?" I could feel the blush rising again.

She nodded. "Of course. It is always nice to see even during the bad times."

"I'm glad."

"So, seeing you smile again has given me courage. I won't run away." She sighed heavily, shaking away the burdens and stiffness and loosening her stance. Her sweet face displayed a calm, relaxed smile. "I will make it." She declared, her confidence returning as a spark nestled in her eyes. It was always there; it just needed to be revived.

My girl. Putting an arm around her shoulder, I escorted her back. "I know you will," I assured. And I meant every word of it. Especially the part where I told her I'd never forget her…

I'm glad we got to see each other again. And to cherish a sweet hug that lifted both our burdens away and sent them, bursting into the sky, fading away like fireworks. Transformed by the power of love.

It was enough to hold her in my arms again. My shining star. It was enough to comfort her and remind her I was there. Except I wasn't. I wanted so badly to save her from this madness. The torture and pain were evident in her eyes, and I felt so awful—as though it were all my fault my love was suffering. Was it all my fault? Was there really anything I could have done? I didn't want to make it worse.

All I could do—all I could ever do, all I ever do—was cry. Day in and out. It was like the rain that continued to pour out from the sky and drown everything. Wash it all away. Drown away. Float away—adrift—somewhere. Anywhere besides here and now.

She was right. I couldn't bear it. The one time I decided to go to one of her trials and listen, my heart was practically ripped to shreds.

The way they talked to her—condescending. The way they mixed their words around and demanded things of her. The way they acted.

But worst of all—the way she faltered.

Her eyes, pained, like the mirror of her struggles. The tenseness of her soft voice getting lost in the echoes of the room—trying to reach desperately toward Heaven for some sort of answer.

The way she doubted herself.

My cutie should never have had a reason to doubt. She was my strength—my resolve. She always emanated that air of confidence and poise. Was always sure.

But then—I could tell they were trying to break her. I could tell the trials were rigged.

It was like being in Hell. The distance between us, the room spinning madly out of our control—the words and pieces of our broken souls being lost, tossed, across the space into some kind of nowhere. A blank space. Oblivion. Never to be seen again. As though they were never real in the first place.

That everything—all time and all we were—

was a **lie**.

Oh. I wanted so badly to punch them all. To save her from this Hell. To blow up this false world—a nightmare made by madness—around me.

I **hated** it. I hated them all. I wanted it all to go away.

So I went home and ripped up my house.

Whenever I'm too tortured, angry, or pained, I tend to do this. It's not a good thing at all. Hatred never brings about anything beautiful.

My room had been so properly destroyed—and the wood had beaten me up and scraped me good. Physical pain to accompany the unbearable pain my heart felt.

I never wanted to go back there again. I couldn't believe she had to endure that madness. It just wasn't possible.

In all my pain and desperation, I screamed out to God and pleaded with Him to have mercy—to be with her and to help her. To remind her who she is. To be with her again. To send her confidence and her Voices again to console her. For anything. Something.

Just so I'd know she'd be OK.

Because I wasn't. No. Not at all.

I didn't know until later—decades later—when I read the accounts and trail words just how much she had to endure. I can't believe she had to suffer through so much. If only I could have been there—but what could I have done?

Those were the worst months of my life—never-ending agony. Each day blurred into the next, and I never gave in to any rest, so everything looked like shadows and receding ideas of dreams melting away into the dark edges of the room like ink.

I had forced myself into drinking—thinking it would help—but by God it doesn't help. It only made me cry more. It was like I was drinking my own tears and blood only to pour them out again stronger and stronger each time. If I were human, I would have literally died from heartbreak.

The pain was too unbearable—my heart even stopped a few times, and the disintegrating world of warping shadows and melting scenes unfamiliar to me anymore just blacked out in an instant—and suddenly I was awake again.

But the pain was still there.

But Jeanne was still suffering.

But I was still alive.

Oh my God how I wanted to die.

To be finally liberated from all this God-forsaken pain and just **die**.

But I couldn't.

And so it began again—

The crying

The shadows

The forsaking

The spinning

The losing

The blackness

And the dying

Followed deftly by the revival.

And—thusly—

the return.

The return of all the pain,

as I must swallow it all again.

I couldn't stop.

I had gone mad.

Mad from the depression I couldn't handle.

Mad from the guilt and regret that was never my own.

(But I don't do this anymore. Please don't. It doesn't solve anything. It only makes it worse.)

I never once left the house. The light of day never saw my face—it never wanted to. Darkness consumed me until I lost all notion of time and reality. There was no world. There was no time. There was no France. There was nothing.

And that was when she was still alive. Sigh—I had so much left still to endure, but I didn't know that then. I was so stupid torturing myself so much—hurting so much before anything ever really happened.

But it was too much for her. Oh, how I wanted to take her away with me somewhere peaceful and quiet. But where would we even go? How would we even leave? What would we even do?

Sigh. What a sad and tortured soul I was. The broken man—

the man with the broken heart.

Unable to love.

Unable to be loved.

I had nothing.

Anymore.

But my desk was still in place and left untouched by the violence and pain that surged through me, making me rampage suddenly like a savage monster. The only truth and order left in my decrepit house. My disintegrating sanity. The desk—yes—with my journal and the lily. The white lily she gave me.

At certain moments, I would finally calm down and lift my eyes to the lily which watched me cry my days away. And I'd observe it reverently—and speak to it as though it were her or some kind of object which the Lord blessed. It told me nothing, but the flower—as simple and beautiful as it was—comforted me. It seemed so otherworldly, so pure in this agonizing world. Then I realized.

It wasn't aging.

It wasn't fading away.

Even after all my days of tears and pain and all the hours of mortality's touch and time, the flower stayed the same as though she had just given it to me yesterday. Maybe even the same morning. Lilies usually, without water and cut so short, last only about three days at maximum before the color fades away to a dull beige and the flower loses all its moisture.

But that lily—her lily—stayed.

It was impossible. How could it even be? Was it me? Had I gone mad and was only imagining it? It stayed like that for days and into months—as though it were trapped in time. Stopped on that day she gave it to me. Halted on the last moment we cherished together—our perfect eternity. Our garden. Our love. That day—our time.

When I picked it up, I could still feel her essence. Feel her presence in each second of delicate scent. See her smile in the pure, untouched petals. The pollen hadn't even left a single speck of yellow on the petals—they were such a purest white that it was almost impossible for such a color to exist in this dark world. This wretched place.

I couldn't understand it. It refused to die. It refused to fade away. It refused to be tainted.

She refused to waver.

After many days of pain and moping, my tears were exhausted, and I couldn't bring myself to cry any more. And so, with a little lighter heart, I unstuck myself from my bed and picked myself up with all the strength I had left. And forced myself to take a walk outside. Walks always clear my head and remind me the reason I still strive to live—the flowers, naturally—and the exercise would do me good, anyway. Though my body was too weak to put in the effort, so I felt like I was floating to the front door.

The sudden, bright sunshine knocked me back and practically blinded me. With an internal shudder, I cursed the bright, blue sky for being what it was—and not gray and dark, like the only feelings I could muster in my cold, desolate soul. But I couldn't change the sky nor the fact that the world's events were out of my control. So I shut the brightness away—pretended it wasn't there. And walked meaninglessly through the countryside.

As my thoughts ebbed and flowed like a nearly empty sea, my plodding feet subconsciously led me to the fortress where Jeanne was held, and I chuckled to myself. I joked my heart led me to her—where I belonged. But as I neared the entrance, the guards stopped me from entering. I couldn't believe I was somehow still visible—especially because my self-esteem was practically non-existent then.

"Please. I don't meant to cause any trouble. I just came to visit Jeannette. She's being held here."

"You mean she was," one of them corrected me.

Without letting them speak any further, I blurted out, "What?! Where is she now?!"

I didn't even really need a full answer—just the name of the town. Or the fortress. And off I went. Like a rocket, I was there within a few minutes. I had hoped I wasn't too late. What did they do to her? Is she still alive? My sweetie. I hope you can hear me, my love. They can never take your sweet soul.

It was fate that I was led there that day.

No sooner did I arrive that all my questions were answered. She had been put on her final trials and was to be sentenced. Tomorrow. It was going to be earlier.

What had I done? **What had I done**? It was so heart-wrenching. So many regrets. If only I had known. Been there. Somehow would have stopped all of this. Was I just another pawn watching all of this unfold?

I couldn't bear to show my face. I ran home and cried.

"It's such a lovely day!" Jeanne exclaims happily.

"I know. It is!" I return.

It really is the perfect day for a picnic. Relaxing, warm sunshine…careful breeze…endless blue that soothes the soul.

"It was fun mountain-climbing with you, too. I loved the view."

"Ah, yes… The view was magnificent!" I agreed with a romantic sigh. "But not as magnificent as seeing it with you!" Wrapping an arm around her, I nuzzle her sweet head and take her into a loving embrace.

Giggling, she pushes me away playfully but, with a shy look, silently admits that she wouldn't mind sharing a little hug with me. Cutie.

Sigh. If only…

 **If only it were real.**

All that awaits me is pain.

I hurt still—but in a different sort of way. It wasn't regret and pain for what wasn't to come or for what could come. It was pain and remorse for what was waiting very near over the horizon. Tomorrow. Was the last day I'd see her.

All the daydreams in the world. All the fantasies I had treasured. All the words I wanted to share but couldn't. All the days and love and time I longed to give her. All everything. All of me. All the hope and empowerment she'd given me.

The lily still stood alive, though. Vibrant with color and life. I couldn't bear to see it fade away, so I pressed it in my journal while it was still young. So as to keep it forever. Not just in memory…but somehow in immortality.

Always. Together. But tomorrow.

Sigh. What **was** I?

I wished it didn't have to be. That we could have more time and memories to share. Good ones.

I hated the thought that she had to…

Had to…

Had…

She didn't have to. Who said she did? That it was required? Why?

My pain. My agony.

My love.

Why do you have to go? I'll miss you. I need you…

I…

Why?

"Why? Why, God, why? Why did you have to take her from me?"

 **I dread the very thought of writing this. It's so painful. But it must be done, yes, my darling? I wish to tell your whole story, too. After all…it was the last time we saw each other. The last time…**

 **I miss you. I love you. And I'm sorry.**

 **I'm sorry it had to end this way.**

I was the first one there. I arrived before anyone else. I saw the stars fade away into the morning and the sun rise triumphantly into the clear, blue sky. I witnessed the clear blue shadow over with white clouds until they mixed with gray to make a somber atmosphere. I witnessed the shift of the air to a cool, brisk breeze that soon faded away to basically the stillest possible day I have ever felt in my life. The air didn't move at all. Not even a miniscule measurement of wind. It was almost the perfect day for this. That's what frightened me the most. It was all planned. But why? Why, Lord?

By the time the men came to prepare the area, I felt like a statue. I had planted myself there and stood still for so long that I couldn't feel my legs anymore. I couldn't feel anything anymore. Except my heart beating mercilessly in my chest, my stomach churning from apprehension, and my nerves tingling from the same affliction that was sickening my stomach. I was scared to death. I felt like I was being tortured. I wanted so much just to scream out and surrender just for it all to stop. Just so I wouldn't have to see it. Just so it wouldn't have to happen.

They set up a pit of logs—a perfect circle—and hammered a tall, skinny piece of wood into the ground. As I was the ground, I imagined the pain it drove into my heart—the sharp pain of sharpened steel being hammered into me until it was found to be enough for the wood to be secured. Each hit hurt. More. Each time.

I couldn't bear to look. I shut my eyes tightly, cringing and shaking and sniffling at the thought of what's to come until I wasn't alone anymore. I wanted to be alone. It was just worse being surrounded by screaming idiots who were tricked into believing that the act today was some kind of "good thing" instead of the worst possible thing I could ever imagine. The worst day of my entire life. The day that left me behind nothing but a broken man with a broken heart and a tattered soul.

I lost the love of my life that day.

I wanted to be alone. I kept my eyes shut tight and tried to push away the rest of the world. Tried to forget why I was there. Why I was a statue. Why my heart couldn't take it anymore.

When, suddenly, a hand placed itself on my right shoulder. It wasn't hers—I could tell immediately. It was bigger and not as warm. Heavier. But I didn't look.

"You can go if it's too much for you, you know."

But I recognized that voice. That stupid accent. That biting accent. I whipped around and threw his hand off my shoulder. "What are you doing here?!" I screamed, aghast.

England just gave me that look. That look he always gives me. He doesn't understand why I'm this way. The crying damsel in distress. The one that's too emotionally-driven. What? Is it wrong to cry?

"Look. I don't like it any more than you do," he tried to console me—in the usual sort of biting tone.

I turned around and shut my eyes again—tightly. I didn't want to admit he was there. I didn't want him to be there. It was his fault. It was everyone's fault. Was it also my fault? I didn't want to think about that then. **What if it** **was**? The tears came, painfully, forcing themselves from my closed eyes like plants forcing through concrete. I couldn't cry—I couldn't let him see me cry. But it hurt. What if it  was my fault? I should have done something—anything!

Just as I lamented over my inability to help her…the noise blew up around me, and I knew immediately.

[ **this is the hardest part to write**

There she was. Though she was walking on her own, there were two guards walking her down. With chains on both her wrists, she looked like a poor, tortured dog being pulled by two leashes. Time had taken such a toll on her poor face. Her innocent features were tattered by insults and scraped by the dust of the world. She almost looked like how I looked before she saved me. **She** **saved** **me**. And her hair had grown almost all the way out, reaching all the way past her shoulders to the middle of her back. Straight but fuzzy—still a beautiful blonde but it was sullied by dirt until it was literally a dirty blonde color. Only her cloak was pure white—soft as the first snowfall and pure and innocent like the robes of angels. She was skinny, too—almost  too skinny.

If I had to narrow down when exactly my heart was shattered into pieces, I would have to say it was right then. Seeing her so beaten-down…so filthy and scratched-up… It just pains me. What happened…to my girl?

I almost broke down and cried. The world surrounding us was unrecognizable. The darkness stemming from my tortured soul and tattered heart and all the days of agony that led up to this living nightmare. Even with the shine she once had and her luminous presence she kept in her soul, there was nothing that could help me. Even as desperately as I tried to look back to her to reach for the other world we made—the magical land and sensation where it would be only us, our true and pure love, I couldn't. It didn't even exist anymore. Was everything all a lie? Did I wake up? Did I imagine that? Oh, so badly…I wanted to escape. Just feel that same trinket of comfort that I could escape—in a small way—in her presence and feel lost in her loving, protective arms.

As she was led through the crowd, she motioned the two guards alongside her to stop, and they listened. She stopped right before me. Those familiar emerald eyes stared straight into my eyes, and, comfortingly and subtly, the world did begin to fall away a little. At the first glance, I expected to see all the pain and torture she'd taken, and while her appearance made that evident, her eyes held no trace of that torture. She was as confident and sure as she'd ever been—wielding this time and incident as though it were her greatest shining ray of hope for me. As though she knew this is what she had to do. I couldn't believe it.

I went to speak, but I could find no words, and she had no words for me then. Her look provided all the answers. And, knowing I had received the message whether I liked it or not, she pushed through the chains, like a butterfly pushing back a mountain, and gently but firmly took my hand. With a nod to confirm my thoughts, she let go and continued to walk. To walk away. And leave it all behind.

That couldn't be all she wanted to say, I kept telling myself. I had too much I wanted to say, but what good would any of those words do now? To reach for her—to stop it all. To ask her why she was so confident, so willing. To tell her how much I love her and how much she meant to me and how much I hated to see her willfully just…go. Why? It didn't make any sense to me at all then.

As she walked away, I lost all the strength to reach for her and take her back into my arms. Tears poured from my eyes like heavy rain, and I hid my face with my hands. I felt so useless—so powerless. So futile. So crushed and pained. Foggy in a world of darkness.

They led her to the front of the crowd, to a scaffold where they allowed her to stand upon her own. As though it were a tragic play they had rehearsed, the guards let her go, and she kneeled before us on top of the wood and lowered her head in shame.

"I am sorry for the pain that I have caused," she called out in a repentant but oddly confident voice. "Please, I would have you offer your prayers of forgiveness to the Lord for me."

But you didn't do anything wrong.

"Please have mercy upon me, O Lord!" she yelled out, suppressed pain making its way up from her heart. "I accept now your will for me!"

What?

There were no more incriminating words. No trial questions. No contradictions or sentences or interjections. A thoughtful and rather dreadful wave swept on all of us. And there was only silence. Thoughtful, pained, regretful silence.

"I'm ready now," she barely muttered—a sound that, even at that distance, sounded like she whispered it directly into my right ear. "But first—I request, humbly request, that you bring me a cross that I may hold as I burn."

The accusers were surprised at her request, but they nevertheless sent someone for a cross from the priest—but they never returned.

While they had gone and there was only tense waiting, my tears had gotten the better of me, reducing my face to stricken grief. I couldn't stand being apart from her. Especially then. Trying to make myself unnoticed, I wandered to her through the people, and England yelled out at me to stop—but I ignored him.

It was so gratifying being beside her again. Her essence, though diminished, filled me with a soft light of hope. I wanted so badly to take her into my arms and flood with tears, pleading her not to leave me. Not to give up. But I knew how she'd respond. So, instead of fabricating her cute responses in my mind, I wished to cherish her direct thoughts and words so they would echo in the emptiness of my heart for all eternity.

"Why did you come to me, Monsieur France?" she wasn't angry nor sad I was there with her—simply curious. Her face held no hint of emotion other than dutifulness and a stoic sense of fear that had been long pushed away.

"It feels natural to remain by your side, Jeanne."

She almost smiled at my genuine comment. "I see." Swiftly, she turned her head away and looked to the sky. Now on the ground, her eyes seemed to want to reach farther to see what's beyond the crystal veil. "Please do not interfere, M. France. This is something that I must do. This is the final task the Lord has granted me—something that I must do for him, I was told."

I…

"I had refused before because I was too afraid of the fire. But I know now I have no fear," her little voice broke at this, and my heart wanted to break, too. She took a deep breath. "Because I know He is with me." Gracefully, she turned her face to me, revealing a powerful, oddly genuine smile peeking from under her fully determined and rather pained expression. "And I would like you to be with me, too."

Always. But I can't bear to see you go. But why? I love you, my sweet. Please explain.

"Please," she continued resolutely and somewhat nostalgically, "I have only one request for you, M. France."

Anything.

"That you stand among the others and smile as I do this."

But that.

"But…how?" I was fully torn and unable to comprehend. "How can I smile?" when the love of my life, who has given me so much…is…

"Please."

I had to. I knew she was serious—there was no doubt about that. Her eyes were as steely as they'd ever been, and if it truly were the wish of her heart, her last request, I knew I had to heed it. Somehow. With a sharp breath, I mulled over my decision and couldn't possess the strength to answer. So I held her sweet hand, weighed down by chains, and cradled it—cherished her—to my heart, reflecting upon her a moment. With a soft kiss, I let her hand go, returning it gently to her side. We nodded almost unanimously, and my body refused to let her go. Why couldn't I stay? Hold her forever…feel her…and be beside her until…

With an internal sigh, I slipped away and returned among the nameless faces.

The monsters in charge were becoming impatient, so they yelled out to continue despite Jeanne's request for a cross, which never materialized. Though Jeanne adamantly demanded to have a cross to hold—to keep beside her the entire time. I couldn't leave her. I lingered. As I reached for her, a nearby onlooker crafted a simple cross with sticks and handed it to her, touched by her words.

Upon gently receiving it, she folded her hand around the simple trinket and pulled it to her heart, treasuring the gift with a warm, full smile as though it were the single greatest thing she could ever have.

It was life-giving to see her smile again. A picture I'll forever cherish in my mind. The sun could have come out right then, and it wouldn't have compared to the warmth of her smile. I savored the sight, letting it wash over me and cleanse my soul—before I returned with the others, where I realized that the sweetest sentiment brought about the most horrid event.

Why couldn't it have ended there? She was one of God's greatest children. But the corrupt church didn't see that—they saw only what they wanted to. Manipulated her to say otherwise. They were still human, after all—and they, unfortunately, gave Catholicism and Christianity a bad name. She was the purest of angels. The strongest of fighters. A saint among liars.

I couldn't stand it anymore. I stood in the same place I was before, and I could feel the ground sinking underneath me where my tears had fallen and the residual pain and dread I had infused into the surrounding air. It all came back and chained me again.

"Hey," England came by and whispered. "What are you doing consorting with the prisoner, you dummy?"

That's all it took was that word. In an instant, I had him by the throat and was about to choke him and snap his neck at the same time. "Don't you dare call her a prisoner! You ingrate!"

"OK. Stop," he forced. "Let me go!"

I clawed my hands away—letting out the last of my aggression. Turning away, I regretted what I did and returned to moping.

"Sheesh. Fine. I won't talk to you anymore," England commented while rubbing his neck, his footsteps receding in the grass.

I sighed heavily.

 **I hate this pain that drags down my heart. That keeps me from having anything but heartache.**

And so, on that lonely day in May, it happened. They started that wretched "sentence." That ill-bided "ceremony" that took place while the sky refused to cry and all the pain in my heart numbed me until I was crumbling—my nerves stuttering along, my heart fumbling along; the weight so much that I constantly collapsed in on myself. I could barely stand anymore. The monsters in charge, still trying to convince us that somehow Sweetie was the one at fault here, preluded the affair with something so stupid that I pushed their words out of my mind. The only ones that stick, the ones that still now float in my mind so vividly that I can still hear them, are hers. It's always her. Why did it always have to be her? Why couldn't it have been me instead?

The whole time she awaited her inevitable fate, she stood eerily calm. No flashes of fear, no outbursts, no statements against what they said. Nothing. Just that same determination which never wavered—it didn't even soften upon sight of me. There were even split seconds which I cherished that our eyes met—and still, that confident, stern expression would remain. And I don't know why I could barely stand it—wanted to yell out something or maybe just to ask her why. This was madness! Couldn't they see? Madness!

Was I the only one that saw?

Still with equanimity, she allowed the guards to take her again—to chain her to the stake while I stood there, dying inside. It can't really be. It can't. Is it all just a nightmare?

 **Make it stop. Make it stop.**

Then, suddenly, she found her voice.

"Oh, Lord almighty whose presence sees and knows all! Hear my prayer!" her mighty call rang out all across the land, silencing all. "Forgive these men who accuse me and grant me the strength to listen to your call!" Though she still brimmed with confidence, tears welled in her eyes, and I could tell her hidden feelings had gotten the best of her for a moment. "Please, all you who are holy, pray for me! Pray for forgiveness for all I have done! Lift your hearts to the Lord who saves all!"

And then, calming herself, closing her eyes, and reaching her head back as far as her neck would take it to the sky, she recited Catholic prayers and creeds that were guided by her heart. Every word another piece of her soul.

The words left me. The words left everyone. There was nothing left we could say. The emotions began to drain from me. But the tears somehow rose and stayed, trapped, in my eyes—just enough to blur the nasty view so as to console me just a little while longer before…

The torch came.

Her prayers didn't waver—not even a little.

The silence among us turned to protests and shouts—sporadic and demanding.

"What?!" England joined in on the protesting, as well. "What are they doing? They aren't going about it humanely?!"

The "humane" way for this execution is to break their legs and arms or basically to snap their necks or to half-kill them beforehand so it wouldn't hurt as much. It sounds unpleasant, but really, feeling it all is much, much worse. Being alive during it all is much, much worse.

Still, she didn't waver at all. Not even a centimeter.

The flames immediately engulfed the small timber that was set. It was a devouring monster with an insatiable appetite. I couldn't stand it. **Make it stop. Stop. I can't. I don't want to see it anymore.**

My whole body began to shake—writhe—in pain. My breathing turned borderline hyperventilation. Tears streaked from my eyes very steadily—never once feeling polite enough to blur my eyesight. **Reach out. Stop it—break through and stop it.**

The shouting continued, and some of the officials silenced the protestors—pushing back those who had at least half a heart left. Others broke down and cried, their eyes burning with hot, painful tears. Those who prayed knelt to the floor, muttering as though they had gone mad—pleading for it all to cease. I wanted to break down and cry. But I also wanted to believe it wasn't actually happening.

England saw me fighting my war with myself and my emotions, and he took my shoulder, realizing now that we were no longer enemies. We both hated this. "Do you need some time?" he asked compassionately—oddly compassionately. Probably the most genuine he's sounded in his entire life. "You don't have to force yourself to watch if you can't."

"But I…" I sputtered through tears.

Why? I couldn't bear it, but I knew I had to. She's… I need to be here. I said I'd never leave her! Even now… She…

She needed me.

Of course. It was so evident. I promised her I'd always stand by her side, through good and bad. Through everything. Until the bitter end. Well, here it was. And what was I doing? Trying to force myself not to cry or to pretend it's not real? She actively gave her life for me, and I was trying not to cry?

I couldn't. Though my human soul was writhing in pain from all those turbid emotions, there had to be something I could do. I wanted to share her pain. To take it. Like the ground the stake was thrust in or the grass which the flames licked. That was me, too. The land which she strived to protect—the country which she vowed would remain. The person in which she sought confidence. The people which fought at her side.

I…was all of those things. Not just the idiot who was always crying in the background about how much he hated to fight or to see her go. I…was the Kingdom of France. And I needed to be there for her—just like she was always there for me. Even if it meant taking on everything she felt. Being courageous for once. Standing there. Beside her. Until the end.

So I ran to her. Pushed anything and everything aside and took her into my arms. That was what my wary heart truly wanted. To stay beside her—even as she faded from my arms.

The heat was unbearable. The pain almost as worse as what consumed my heart. I doubted the ground really exchanged that much of the intense pain and heat, but I didn't mind—because I was willing to. Through it all, though, I could still somehow sense her there. Feel her subtle warmth—of her caring soul—comforting and cool in this terrible inferno.

She stopped her prayers and hymns for a moment to ask what I was doing. Not in a surprised way. Nor in an annoyed way. In fact, pretty emotionless entirely.

"I will stay by your side and share your pain," I stifled my yells of agony. Even though I wouldn't die, it felt like I should have. At least three times. Waterfalls of tears evaporated before they had the chance to leave my eyes.

"All I asked is that you smile."

"I'm sorry! I can't! I don't understand how I could!"

"It is fine," she assured quietly. "I understand."

It's not that she sounded disappointed, per se, but that response, knowing I hadn't heeded her only request, made the tears flow more.

Returning to her prayers and hymns, she carried those words of soul, releasing them to the sky, until her last breath—which she knew by then would be any time.

That's what frightened me. I couldn't bear to see her go. But I still remained, anyway. Cherishing each last second of her brief, beautiful life…

As memories of her came dancing into my mind, the heat and noise dissipated, and my heart became strangely light. Her presence had always been such a comfort to me, and she gave me so much in only three years. So much. So many moments to cherish, so many smiles to treasure…but so many vignettes to rip from the scrapbook and so many stabs to my heart that I had forgotten just how…special it all truly was. Did I really have to feel only regret? I kept my promise… I tried my best… And my love would never fail.

We both did all we could do. And whether it were a lot or everything or hardly anything, we believed in our hearts it was enough.

It was only after a while that I realized that reminiscent, light feeling was the same I had always felt with her—when the world would fade and we would have only each other. Haha. Seems strange to feel that during such a painful and disturbing time. But…it was nice to sense it once again. All the troubles fading away…as we remained close. For the fire could never take her soul, and the distance could never sever my love.

As the soft tears descended, disintegrating as one of the most beautiful essences did, I could feel her slipping away…and, breaking through all my pain and all the barriers constricting my throat, I whispered gently…a wish to send her off to the sky…an envoy to guide her among the angels.

"Adieu, my love."

 **Epilogue…**

A heavy quiet fell over the world. There I knelt, devoid of any emotion anymore. I had been stricken of everything: sadness, remorse, regret, pain… I could feel nothing anymore; I was numb. A shell—a blank stare to the place where she once was; the ashes that were gently carried away by the wind. She was here once. I held her until she faded from my arms. And now, there's nothing left. Only memories of her…her name etched in history…the spot where she rests eternally in my heart…and this place—the echoes of footsteps where she once tred. The places she once stood. All the smiles she brought. What now?

Everyone had left already, but I didn't really notice. It wouldn't have mattered, anyway. I was already lost in my little world—alone—disconnected from everything and everyone. I would have hated to see the looks on their faces. Would have hated to see the looks on her parents' and siblings' faces when they were told what happened. Would hate to see the look on my own tattered face even—of course—that would be the worst to see. My heart was broken that day. Broken and never to be mended. A gaping hole that would never be filled. Just like the rest of me—everything I'd ever be. Shattered future with no hopes without her. A broken heart full of only pain; pieces and fragments that had nothing to hold them together. I knew I'd never be the same anymore. That I was broken, and that's all I'd ever be. That I am broken. I will be broken. Nothing. But broken.

What did she think of me, really? I tried to be good—to make good impressions. Sure, I lost my sanity—the pain became too much sometimes that it just burst from me without my being able to control it. I hope she understood. What kind of memories and stories would she take to Heaven with her, I wonder? Only good ones, I hope. Maybe some…with me…those days we spent together and smiled. Picking flowers and looking out at the stars… My singing her lullabies at night to get to sleep. Those moments…I'd just love to hold her just to feel her near me.

My God. That's what I miss the most. Holding her. Just feeling her near me again.

Why can't I leave? I couldn't leave. I just wanted to stay there forever—as though her essence still lingered there...invisible. Waiting until the dust was taken away completely—far into the untamed sky. Where no pain would wait her there. But I'm left only with pain.

Maybe…maybe I just wanted… For her to take me with her.

But… She saved me. I had to go on, but how could I? I felt so hopeless. So crushed and empty. After a while longer of melancholic pondering, blank staring, trying to make sense of the impossible and push away the pain—I lifted myself up off the ground. And turned away.

That hurt the most. Turning away. Leaving it behind… But I never left her behind.

Needless to say I spent the next vapid, timeless months or weeks or something moping around my house—chasing away the light and hiding in the dark, carrying the pain and crying until I almost fainted from dehydration or until I couldn't breathe because my chest was so heavy I thought for sure my heart was about to burst. Maybe I wanted to die. To feel like I was—just to comfort me into thinking someday…I wouldn't have to bear an eternity without her. Sometimes I lay awake at night, staring at the ceiling, asking myself why it hurt so much. But I didn't question. Why. The pain told more than words could ever explain. I cried, I moped, I sighed…and that was enough. I didn't need logic to tell me what I should or shouldn't feel and why. I've always been a believer in the heart.

And then, among the restless nights, I'd affix my glance toward the ceiling and talk aloud to myself—or to her. In hopes she'd be listening. I still talk to her. Sometimes, I feel she responds. But I felt so lonely then—my heart so racked with pain that there was no such thing as hope or love or happiness anymore. I don't think there's even a word for how I felt then. "In the depths of despair"? That's not even close.

But I'd talk to her. Talk to Him, asking for guidance and to watch over her…to take care of her now—for me. To have mercy on my poor, pitiful soul. But…somehow…I never really got mad at God for what He did. I know she wouldn't have liked that; I know it was just the way it was. But—ugh—did it hurt.

I didn't care anymore. The battle still raged—ridiculous. The stupid Hundred Years' War was still going on—even after all that. Why? What was the point anymore? I wanted nothing to do with anything, so my poor citizens fought out in the cold, harsh world while I cried to myself in bed every day and night. I wanted to be shut away as far as I could. It's impossible, I know, to run away from the world—especially if you're a country—but I still tried. I wish we could have run away together. I regretted that; I regretted everything—down to the words I spoke to her every day. Did I do something wrong? I always wondered…

But what I regretted the most. Was not being able to tell her how I felt about her.

But I could have. I should have. I didn't. I kept myself from saying anything for fear of how she'd react or what she'd think of me. I wanted her to feel safe around me—to be someone to come to when she was worried or scared. To be there. Always. Is that love? What is love, truly? I've…always wondered. I've always tried to find it…to give it…to share it… Is love companionship or pleasure? Or innocence or romance? Or sweet words or thoughtful gifts? Or one-night stands or well-planned dates? Or kindness or compassion? Understanding and thoughtfulness? Happiness or contentedness? Trust or joy? There isn't even an answer, is there? That's…all I've ever tried to understand all my life. What "love" really means. I've tried them all. I've fallen into all sorts of traps. Been in all kinds of relationships. Ugh. "Relationships." That's like saying I've been in contracts. Love is more pure than that—I'm sure of it. It's not a list you have to follow or a magic word you have to say. It's not always knowing the right thing to do but trying anyway. It's… I don't know. I don't know what it is. But I know how I felt about her. How I feel about her. And if it is love…then I have always known the answer, haven't I? I've…just been so blind is all.

Maybe I'm just over-thinking it too much. Or maybe it's hard to love with a broken heart.

A heart that will never forget the love it had once known…and lost… So tragically. Suddenly. Painfully.

But I wanted to tell her…regardless. Just for her to know. Maybe she knew. I'll never know.

But I do know one thing: she meant everything to me. And losing her ruined me forever. And ever since then, I've never stopped telling her "I love you." Every night. Every morning. Every time my thoughts turn to her. When the memories resurface, or when the purest evening sunset falls. "I love you." And I always will.

And, each time, I'm left with a feeling of peace. So maybe it's true, after all.

I love you, my sweetie. My miracle girl. My Jeannette. Petite Jeanne. Ma Cherie. Ma chère.

Jeanne.

Finally, I decided after the longest time of confinement to leave my house for the outside world once again. But only for a short walk, I told myself. Only for a short walk outside. The confining air of my little shack had become stifling—life-sapping. That the air of the outdoors, cool with a tinge of chill, was so refreshing. Life-giving. I wanted to spread my arms and take to the sky—touch the clouds and maybe take her hand in the process. But I was so bound. By the ground, the pain, the reality of it all. I'd rather dream. Things go better in dreams. Though…sometimes I wish I could have written my dreams differently.

In retrospect, I felt like Ophelia from that stupid play. Mind-numbingly melodramatic and pained to the point where I might have taken invitation to go drown in the nearest river—my conscious-waning corpse floating along with the beautiful flower petals…almost like floating in the sky and being carried by the soft, fragile scents. But flowers come back. Would I come back, too? Maybe I wouldn't want that, after all.

But I digress. My heart wasn't as much of a lead weight as it had been. The light singed my skin, but the breeze felt nice and light enough that I didn't mind being outside. My bitter disposition bit at the bright sun, though, disgusted that such a lovely day would exist during such a sad time. It felt like years since I'd been outside—like I'd been frozen and thawed into a new era or woken from a thousand years' slumber and plunged into a new day that had nothing to do with the time I had fallen asleep. How much time did pass? Did it even matter? Everything was still the same. The same. Sigh. How I loathed it. What was the point of still fighting after all that? What was the point?

I found myself wandering to the river Seine once in a while. Just to reflect on the shimmering waters. They poured the ashes into the water, as though to hide them or let them flow away. But they did the opposite. Water—life-giving and clear. Pure. The river that flows straight into my heart. In a way, she's always kept close to me now. Flowing with life like the never-ending river. Flowing along with my love that shall never recede. When I look into the clear waters, can I see your smile reflecting back beneath the surface of blue? Or maybe your eyes shimmering like the jewels left by the sun's rays? I don't know. I wish I could see you again. I can only see me. Sad, pathetic me. But somehow, reflecting and pondering—looking to the river for introspection—always helps me find my answers. Then, I had no answers. I barely had any questions. My head and heart were heavy enough as it was. I could think of nothing more but her. Just her. And how much it pained me she wasn't there beside me. Should I have kept some of them with me? Sigh. But the thought frightens me. Mortality…frightens me.

Wandering, aimlessly, I followed the whims of my legs, which felt like they could give at any moment and leave me flailing and sobbing stupidly on the ground until someone came by to pick fun at me. But—somehow—I kept going. Walking, on and on at deadening pace, until I had scaled one of the small hills to overlook the countryside that lay beyond. The overlooks always invigorated me—space, height, being above and beyond looking over and out—all these things give me height and invigoration. But, under the guise of depression, the space instead felt so empty, so vapid. It just reminded me how lonely I was. How much I wanted her to be there beside me—so I could tell her how I've always dreamed of staying in the mountains with someone—overlooking the beautiful countryside and lingering there until the sun set…where we'd whisper sweet sentiments to each other, dream under the full sky of stars… Feel so big but so small in this wide, majestic world of ours. It is all ours. This wide, crazy, beautiful world. Both eternity and nothingness at the same time.

Now. It's just me. Sad, lonely, sorry me. Looking at how sad and sorry I am.

Ma Cherie amour.

I had cried so much that summoning more tears seemed to be impossible. It was like I had exhausted all the natural resources possible to make more rivers from my sadness. There was no water and no place for it to go. So I feigned crying while staring out into the distance—such pained notions of dreams that would never come.

I need you.

"There you are, idiot. Where have you been? I thought you'd fallen off the face of the Earth!"

I didn't mean you.

I heaved a sigh, wiping the tears that weren't there. I couldn't muster any bit of anger let alone mild frustration or annoyance, so my words came out very bland. "Please. I'm not in the mood for you right now."

"Don't you realize there's still a war going on right now?" he asked manner-of-factly.

I had turned my back to him, but I could tell by the normal and somewhat softened gentleness in his tone of voice that he wasn't here to pick a fight with me. For once in a while—that did happen. After all, unfortunately or not, we had fought so much and conversed so much that we became closet confidants as well as mortal enemies. I didn't really have anyone else to talk to then. Not that he was the best company.

"Come on, spit it out," he commanded.

I sighed a mournful sigh. The kind of sigh a rainy day would send away as it wished it were something other than melancholy. "You know what's been bothering me."

"What?" he asked for clarification.

"You're really that dense, huh?" My voice choked. "You don't know? Since then?"

After a few seconds of reflection, he huffed a sigh. "You know, I feel bad about it, too. I mean, she was just a child."

The tears found their way back then—after all.

"I mean—that was the big thing the others planned. She was by all accounts our enemy, and they did what they had to to assure we'd be victorious, is all!"

"Stop sugar-coating it."

"I was desperate, too, OK?! But… Now it's different," he whispered, and I turned to see his eyes cast over with gray. He was truly remorseful. "I felt terrible because…" Closing his eyes, he abandoned that silly "tsundere" side of his for the genuine side. "I didn't realize…she meant so much to you."

My heart pained, I broke into a series of hurt chuckles. "Meant a lot to me…" The laughter shook to pained sobs. "Meant a lot to me?" I strained. My eyes longing for the bright, blue sky, I stared until I faded away in the beautiful blue pigment. "She…was the world to me." But my skies turned to gray with subtle, falling rain. "She still is," I whispered, forcing myself not to burst into maddening sobs once again.

He said nothing. He never could say anything.

"Why?" My pained, tortured heart got the best of me, as it always does. And I began to ramble on while crying, pained, trying to quell my heart to keep it from breaking again. "Why? I can't live on like this! It hurt me so much! I swear I'll die of a broken heart!" Reflecting on my words with a sigh, I realized how nice they sounded. I muttered softly, poignantly, "Maybe that's not so bad, though… Why don't you just kill me and put me out of my misery? I'm worthless anyway. Go on. I wouldn't mind." I burst suddenly, water pouring from my eyes, "The world wouldn't care if I were gone!"

Suddenly, a sharp pain came to my face, and my eyes snapped open. The tears halted, but my face felt even worse with the addition of the stinging sensation.

"You idiot! Don't talk like that! You're delusional saying things like that!" he burst, practically fuming.

"You of all people slapping sense into me…" I muttered to myself, drowning out his frantic words. Consoling my pained cheek, I wondered what prompted this onset. Maybe I would be missed, after all?

"Are you even listening?" he questioned, belligerent.

"But there isn't anything special about me," I mentioned casually. "What do people even know me for? Being stupid? Running away? All I have is Paris, the countryside, and a broken heart."

"Well…" he calmed down, staring to the ground, hiding his intent, "you didn't hear this from me, but the word around is that everyone talks about your food like it's pretty good."

"Really? It's not that good," I responded, surprised. Back then, food was just mainly for nourishment. No one had ever thought of it as anything more—especially when it was scarce. Nobility, on the other hand, often enjoyed lavish meals. But that was another story, and that really wasn't until the late 1600s and beyond.

"It's just what they say, all right?! I don't know if it's really true."

Dummy.

With a huff of a sigh, he turned from me, tired of my stupidity already. "I'm sick of you being depressed all the time. It's really starting to bug me. You know, it won't be any fun if you just surrender after all these years. So I'm hoping you'll still put up a good fight." And with that, he walked away. As usual.

Sigh. He was right. I knew it, too. My work wasn't done. I couldn't just give up like that—especially not after what my love did and her sacrifice for me. He knew that, too. Radiantly, joyfully, I let out a grand, bombastic, over-confident laugh as I was so used to doing before yelling back, vowing, "Don't you worry about that! I'll be like a tiger! No one will be able to stand in my way!"

With confidence, I jumped from the hill and ran to the fields, reveling in the power and vibrancy I had lost—so suddenly and distastefully—to sadness. With a confident smile, I lifted my eyes to the sky once again, feeling I was looking straight into her eyes. "I won't let you down, my love!" I yelled triumphantly, overcome with hope, joy, power—but falling to my knees with depression, emptiness, and confusion. Both resolute and lost at the same time.

Back at home, I made myself a little something simple to eat, and I just couldn't grasp why England claimed others were talking about my food. Was there just something about it? Even Jeanne would always tell me she enjoyed my meals so much. It was so strange to me. Did I have a talent I didn't see or notice? Or maybe his food just tasted like dirt or garbage (which was highly possible—even then). It made me chuckle to think about.

But it was so perplexing—that something so mundane could actually be a kind of talent that someone could have. A life path and something made special by a dream. Then, as if a message dropped from Heaven, my eyes lit up, and a soft but grand dream entered my thoughts—seeping its way slowly into my heart. "What if food, such a simple necessity—became a kind of art form? What if the mundane became the elegant? A luxury?"

Ever since then, I sought to find the answer to that question. But it took me a very long time to find the answer—and, finally, to make such a grand and mocked dream a reality. And that's how I preoccupied my mind and soothed my madness during those long, arduous days without her.

There wasn't really anyone else to go to in those days to talk about art and food. But, luckily, my neighbor and little brother Italia was willing to hear me out—and, wouldn't you know, he was curious about working with food during the same time I was getting into it, so he was happy to help.

"Big Brother France! It's-a so good to see you!" Chibi Italy greeted me with a warm smile. Then, he was still so small and just a child, so being with him made me feel so young at heart…but so old at the same time.

Letting me in his house, I admired all the lovely paintings and took a seat on a surprisingly soft couch. It was so elegant at his house—I was jealous. I wanted to integrate such beauty into my house, too.

"But why are you here, Big Brother? Aren't you in the middle of a crisis at your house? Aren't you worried?"

"It's all right. It's under control for now, so there's no need to worry." I hated lying to him—to pretend to be the cool big brother I played. But I didn't want to worry poor cutie.

"Wow! You're so cool Big Brother! When I grow up, I want-a to be strong just like you!" he beamed.

"Cute," I responded but added in a hush voice, "but no one wants to be like me…" Covering up my concerns, I changed the subject, looking interested, "So I hear you're interested in cooking?"

His wide, though closed, innocent eyes lit up slightly at my interest, and he talked in his usual enthusiastic manner, his hands flying all over so as to bring emphasis to his words. "Oh, yes! Cooking is a lot of fun! So much fun to do! But what-a I really like the most is making sweets and gelato! But whenever I do cook, I make-a something with pasta!"

I chuckled to myself. Seeing him so happy amused me; he's so cute. And strangely, his enthusiasm seemed to work through me and make me more interested in making things, as well. Maybe because he was still so small, and it was intriguing to me how talented he was at such a young age.

I brought up my question. "But I was wondering how we could improve the taste and quality of food a little. It's quite bland now, isn't it?"

"Wow, Big Brother, you must-a have expensive tastes!" he professed, a little taken aback. "If it's ingredients you're looking for, I could-a share some with you! Lately I've been getting some spices to use!"

"Ah, spices, you say?"

"Uh-hm!" he nodded. "Like salt and-a pepper!"

"Interesting…"

"They really add-a something special to food!"

It seems so rudimentary now, but then, spices were something truly magical and different.

As we continued to chat, he brought me some spice cake to try, and he told me about some of the cooking methods he's been trying lately. Yes, even the simplest cooking methods today seemed so foreign and revolutionary then! After all, there were no stoves or ovens.

"Fascinating. You're really ahead of your time, you know that?" I told him, impressed.

"Oh, it's-a nothing, really!" he admitted, blushing a little and rubbing the back of his little head. "After all, you need water to boil pasta!"

"Now if only I could get him to stop talking about pasta and sweets…" I mused to myself. Speaking up, I questioned, "But what about the sauces for meats? Have you worked on improving those much?" To tell true, sauces back then were used just to mask the flavorless taste of the meat—a sad truth I must admit. But I was interested then in perhaps making the sauces more of an accompanying feature—by figuring out how to make the meat taste better. I was curious mostly about bringing out the ingredients' true, different flavors through preparation and seeing how they could be made special—something that, unfortunately, wasn't really possible without modern technology and techniques. While Italia, of course, had other ideas.

"You mean like pasta sauces?" he turned his head sideways in confusion.

I sighed. "Never mind. It's all right. I'm just curious on how to improve the flavors of things." He opened his mouth to speak, and I stopped him. "Without using lots of spices."

"Oh…" he lowered his head sadly. "I'm not sure I can tell you that."

"That's fine," I consoled him. "It's a work in progress."

"You sure have been thinking about this a lot, Big Brother…" he mused to himself, closed eyes searching the room curiously. After a moment, he turned his head to one side, wondering just why we ended up in-depth discussing all of this. "Are you interested in cooking, Big Brother?"

With a sly smile, I concluded, "I do believe I am."

Finally, in October of 1453, we showed up for the last and final showdown of the Hundred Years' War, which was actually 116 years long. Too many years by then. I was done. It was then the last formal combat for possession of Bordeaux, which was then owned by England, and our proclaimed "final showdown" we staged for each other to prove once and for all it was the end. If I won, then he would have to accept his loss, and if he won…well, I didn't want to think about that then. Though comparable to our usual "play dates" where we get together and fight in secret, this was a very serious affair whose outcome meant both our futures.

So, needless to say, neither of us were willing to back down in this swordfight.

Such an elaborate, but rather conflicting and exhaustive series of strikes and parries, dodges and thrusts. It was comparative to all the battles and struggles and trials that made up this crazy, endless war. The combat seemed to go on forever, vying for my side at one moment but switching against me another. Minutes seemed to be hours and, in retrospect, hours seemed to be minutes. I broke through the pain and didn't back down, though it sometimes seemed like an impossible battle and one that mocked me. But we were both stark serious the whole time—not even slinging any sarcastic comments. Just stern stares and decisive actions.

And, at last, I had had enough. With a swift swipe, I knocked his sword away—far out of his reach—and knocked him to the ground, pointing my sword to his face, nearly touching, as I stood determined with a look of pure frustration, determination, and fury.

And, as all the years of torture, pain, and dying flashed before my eyes. As I stood there, at last, before him with the courage to win. As I had no strength nor pride left. My arm relaxed, my face fell, and my heart could find only regretful sentiments. The look in his eyes was like all the others'. Scared. Uncertain.

"You and I…" I began to muse aloud melancholically, "We've been fighting all these years, and what did it get us? Pain and heartbreak and crisis… What was the point of all of that?"

His giant eyebrows furrowed in confusion, and he yelled out at me, "What are you doing? Just get it over with already!"

Dejectedly, I continued my monologue. "What was the point of all that fighting? Can't we just come to a compromise so we don't have to have so much bloodshed? So much devastation?" Turning away, I lamented to myself, "If we maybe could have realized that… Then maybe my sweetheart would still be here."

In the time I pondered wistfully to myself, Dummy had crawled over and come in behind for a (not-so-sneaky) attack to choke me. "Maybe if you didn't stop to think so much, you'd actually have a chance! Listen to what I say once in a while, would you?"

"You listen!" I barked back, snapping. Dropping my own weapon, I snatched him by the throat again and reiterated my words, adding some of my pain in the process. "What was the point of all of this? All this pain and madness and death was the result of what? Us fighting over petty, stupid things! How stupid is that?!"

All the words just came at once amid my snapped frustration and prolonged sadness. "I'm tired of fighting! It doesn't solve everything, you know! All this senseless violence and greed and hatred and false accusing took away the only person in my life that had meaning to me!" Realizing what I had said, I stopped myself, quelling the oncoming tears that came on like a waterfall. After a second of regaining my composure with a slow breath, I added with a soft, pained tone, "Just…what was the point? Did it do anything to improve us now compared to then? To be in constant disarray?"

He knew, too. I may have been a complete wreck beyond compare, but he had his fair share of troubles, too. And troubles that had yet to come. I could tell, for their stories were written in his troubled eyes. Troubled eyes that, though they were the same color as my sweet love's, they were nowhere near the same shade. Shaded over with gray and tainted by delusions of grandeur. Wishes for a simple past that never was. I let him go.

He sighed heavily, turning away in defeat. He thought for a while without any audible words, unused to admitting that he could ever feel anything similar to the turbid emotions I conceal.

"Don't you wish we were content with the things we had before we lost them?" I said, almost in a pleading way.

After a minute or two, he walked away casually and slowly. As though retracing his steps, reflecting on the past and the future as they slipped away. Eyeing the fallen sword, he picked it up and studied his marred reflection in its scarlet-tinted surface. Sheathing it away. Locking it all away. As though it would put aside all the years of pain and torture for something new to replace it.

Then, he turned back to me. "I'll pay you the fee I owe, and you can take Bordeaux back. With that, maybe we can lace up this war a bit? And then I'll go home."

"England…" I let go of a relieved sigh, "Thank you."

After that bout, finally, I was free. I'd say I won, but that sounds too prideful to say. I don't feel like I've won anything. I only lost things. All the anger and violence and pain and struggles brought us only heartache and destruction. But, at last, I could start my life again—anew. I knew she would want me to live, for she gave herself for me. My darling… I vowed then and there to try to become a better person; to draw upon the statutes she taught me and to discover who I am. I also, with a look of determination toward the sky, promised I would master cooking, feeling that was my calling.

My travels and my interests led me all about the world while I kept cooking in the back of my mind. Not too long after that incident and Sweetie's era, I had the opportunity to traverse that mystical boundary of blue—the ocean that stretched into forever. A part of me refused to leave with the explorers, feeling I needed to stay in the land which held my soul and the traces of her memories and dreams. The places which she stepped and skipped. I couldn't keep her off my mind, still. I never wanted her to leave my mind. It's where she belonged, forever, still alive in my memories and in my undying love. But the others around me noticed my introverted and melancholic state, and they were becoming increasingly concerned for me. And so, long story short, I figured a trip would be a good opportunity for me—to clear my troubles ever so slightly. Besides, I figured would never have the chance to follow explorers ever again—and to figure out, at last, what waits beyond the ocean.

But I was despondent the whole trip—even though we were traversing the mysterious ocean to find what lies beyond the blue. Even though we were living my dream to explore and even though we were surrounded by the beautiful waters…my heart felt emptier than ever. I wished she were there with me to see it. Even though, by then, she would have lived a full life. A life I would have shared every waking moment with her. And every gram of my love.

But, luckily, that was the time I met Mattieu. And he, being so young and vibrant and caring and special, helped fill the void my heart left behind. But that's an entirely different story…

With little Mattieu to keep me company and for me to care for, my heart healed itself slowly and gradually until I was just a heavy soul hidden beneath a loving smile and caring embrace. Just like I am now. And so, forcing myself to cherish my life and to take my mind off sad things, I devoted all my time to cooking and to learning about cooking—taking notes from the past and learning from others around me (mostly Italy, who shared recipes and ingredients with me. And, yes, Russia and I did share pastry recipes…though it was just mostly my taking and improving upon his recipes).

There were days I practically shut myself in and practiced all day long to figure out what I was missing. I volunteered to help local artisans and even became an assistant at lots of different guilds or a cook for royalty. Constantly, I knew I was missing something, and I refused to settle for anything less than perfection—for I knew I would find the answer eventually. I knew, someday, that the light would shine down, and I would know I reached a breakthrough. Several of them, actually.

But, as geniuses and artists and creative minds often were berated, I was teased, as well. Mostly by Iggy Eyebrows-the-size-of-caterpillars (You know that awful animal nickname he's given me). As I was often immersed in my studies and obsessed with the idea of beauty and perfection, others teased me, insisting that my efforts were silly and quite extraneous. After all, people back then were concerned with just having food to eat, forget about it being an art form that makes living something beautiful. But I wanted the mundane to be beautiful. I wanted the luxury the Royals had to be available for the common people, too. I wanted it…and I'm not entirely sure why the idea of majesty obsessed my mind so much. But it meant everything to me. Perhaps it was an escape—from all the troubles I had to endure in my country and the world and my people. Maybe to find some reason to live in this tumultuous world…to fill the chasm in my heart that was dug out when she left me—no when she was taken from me. I'm not sure. But I knew it was important to me. And it still is now.

Just like then, though, chefs all had their different ideas and interests, so I tried my best to learn from all of them during every opportunity I had. And to practice and learn as much as I could. I'm surprised now that I had the time to do all that and still visit Mattieu and have some territory in the States and try to solve the madness around me. Maybe time works differently for me…or maybe it's because I didn't sleep much then. But the French cuisine you know now didn't really take shape until much much much later, once I had mastered what I was looking for and once, of course, we were able to design kitchens and equipment that can be used to help indefinitely the quality of the food. So not really until the 1900s, though the beginnings were during the early 1800s. When you say it like that, it doesn't sound so old!

And so, it wasn't until much later in my search and career (about the 1940s) where I had the greatest breakthrough—and found what I was looking for at last! While working in the garden and harvesting the day's bounty of fresh produce, my mind wandered to and fro about tending the plants, watching them grow with love and care and tenderness. Time, patience, and even more love. That's when it hit me—cooking is the same way! I couldn't believe I didn't see that right away! I was so concerned with getting everything perfect and occasionally frustrated about getting everything just right that the obvious flew over my head. How silly of me…

With great cheer and quiet humming, I dressed up in my chef's outfit and made a full meal in the kitchen—not for anyone in particular but really just for myself. Silky tomato soup, a light salad, sautéed salmon fresh from the river, paired with fluffy rice and crisp haricots verts. Sigh~ So delightful. Maybe some nice cheese and fruit for after dinner… Nice wine to pair… Maybe a light dessert?

With great care and a sweet smile, I lost myself in the moment—enjoying what I had come to enjoy the best. It had become, as I realized, much more than a hobby or interest. It was so natural working with food, so fulfilling giving it life and transforming simple ingredients into art. Allowing time to develop the flavors and care to sharpen them. It got to the point where even making more than one thing at once was simple—with the lovely aromas lifting my spirit, making me feel as though I were floating along the kitchen, twirling like a delicate flower petal in the breeze. With the meal nearly done, I was in high spirits (though rather hungry by then) and looking forward to relaxing outside and enjoying the serenity of the evening.

All that was left was to sauté the salmon until golden so that it would have a lovely color and crisp coating as it finished cooking in the oven. And as the fish finished, I got to work making the sauce from the fonds of the pan which would complement the flavor of the fish. I was happy to find a way to use sauces well rather than to just dump the meat with "flavor" like we did in the far olden days. As memories came to mind and my body danced as I cooked, the white wine splashed in the pan, the alcohol dancing and spiraling up into a little flame of blue…and then red…and then…

 **No.**

It all hit me immediately again.

The flames. The heat… Her resolute smile beneath it all.

 **Why?**

As the colors faded away, I fell gradually to my knees, my face collapsing into my hands. How…did I forget? Had I spent so much time focusing on cooking that I… No, I never really forgot. I just forgot the pain. I had locked it all away—pretending there was no such ending. Searching desperately for her love—or any kind of love. But…

She was always still with me. In my heart and in the depths of my thoughts.

Sucking in a deep breath, I knew what I had to do. Banishing the heaviness and the tears, I summoned the courage and sautéed another fillet.

Perhaps those days were my way to cope with it all. To find something else to carry my thoughts instead of the pain and the ephemeral traces of her. And, if so, my fascination with cooking was borne from her—her telling me how delicious my food was, even during a time when delicious wasn't really important. I had to share this with her. My discovery. My new life and my hobby. My own form of art of which she was my muse—my own form of creativity which stemmed from the ideals of love, beauty, and art. Me. Now. The life she had charge of giving and sustaining.

With the small table set and the windows open, letting in the fresh breeze and the birdsong of the evening, I lit some candles and prepared the table with the dishes of food. À la française. Typical table style in the household. With a wistful smile, I sat across from the empty space—but it wasn't empty. I was sure her essence took possession of it. That her precious soul returned to bless the food.

"Please enjoy," I whispered quietly, a bit of sadness in my voice. "You are the one that inspired me." Taking a bite of the fish paired with the fluffy rice and light sauce, I leaned back, my eyes fixated aimlessly to the ceiling. "You are my inspiration for everything, darling."

A soft breeze from outside wandered beside me, carrying the triumphant call of an evening bird and the delicate scent of the lilies waiting beside the window. With a chuckle, I added, so as to prove something to myself, so as to act as a reminder for her and the rest of my life, so as to continue the legacy without it interfering with my life… So as to keep the past and present alive.

"I could never forget you that easily."

 **Now, into Today…**

The snowflakes have melted away. The sun streams through the gray skies as the morning comes into view. The fire in the fireplace has faded away since, and my journal has returned to its usual state of being closed. Closed—but always there. Waiting on the nightstand by the fireplace adorned by her sword and beside the vase with fresh flowers. The journal still soaked with tears and embroidered with the beautiful phantom of the pressed lily, which still kept its vibrance all these years.

After that entire episode, I find myself mulling over my tears in the rocking chair, my legs too weak to push me back and forth nor to elevate my body from its fragile state bombarded by tears. But somehow, remembering was…refreshing. Inscribing it all again—rejuvenating. It lifted my burdens and allowed me to analyze it all better. To understand, after the longest time, most of the things I didn't understand then. I always believed moving on meant forgetting. It doesn't mean that at all.

On the last rock forward, the chair helps me up, and I shimmy to the window, feeling powerful to be tall again. The world is just waking up now—taking in the warmth and beauty of the day. Even though it's the last day I saw her…maybe it doesn't have to be so sad. All the time, anyway.

Sigh. It's finally time.

With a lazy combing through my hair, I straighten myself up to go out—attired in my usual blue coat which I always find myself wearing. It's my favorite. The air is so calm today—uplifting. It hugs all my troubles away, leaving me with a smile. Passing the flower shop, I pick up my order, two dozen white lilies, and make my way out of town. It will be another long journey today, but not as perilous and arduous as the one I just returned from. No. nothing will be as difficult as that. But no matter the journey, you shall be waiting at the end, and that gives me to hope and heart to continue.

The walk is comforting, nostalgic. I follow the unmarked path to her house, where she always leads me. It's so strange to me how it looks exactly the same—without the mark of time—and feels the same to the point where it feels like, sometimes, little Jeannette is still there, washing the dishes, practicing her hymns and prayers, admiring the garden outside. It's sweet to know. I leave a lily there for her to pick up.

I follow the Loire River, with all its ebbs and flows and tos and fros as it winds about the valleys and plains. Such a sweet river. It seems so strange now that it was barely considered mine back then. Has it always been a part of me? Or did I just steal it? Haha. Either way, it brings me joy now to watch it flow along without a care in the world. Along my path, I place more lilies for her to find, each one signifying another special day we shared. One at the castle, my old house; one by the riverside, another at Orléans, and more to scatter beside the other towns. Each to stand beside her likeness imbued in stone. Strong—but gentle.

The wind sweeps across the plains, and I run along, youthfully, to follow its call. It returns me to that sacred but somber spot—the last patch of ground which her feet graced. My love. Once I came to after being with Mathieu, I had set a marker by where she last stood, consecrating the ground as her place of remembrance. A small stone pillar which reaches to the sky, etched elegantly with her name and pieces of scripture. After that, I often came by to add another decoration or symbol of her life to bring meaning to her grave. A small cross like the simple one she held, her standard of white she carried, a modern French flag to symbolize what she was a part of creating… Fresh flowers that would often stand beside her to remind her the tenacity of life and the beauty of the simple. A hidden box buried behind the stone filled with my stupid poems and letters… And I'd often rearrange the objects or add more to my liking. So as not to overcrowd and not make it look like my shrine of depression. Just enough. Just right. Now it's mostly just the flowers, the standard, the cross, and the flag. I can almost see her smile.

Kneeling to the ground, I offer the wrapped bouquet of white lilies, and, with a smile, call out, "Bonjour, Jeanne."

As the morning fades to afternoon…as the afternoon transforms to evening…as the stars peek their way through the beautiful sky of pink and orange, I stay and chat with her. Tell her all about my misadventures later that day, the memories that stood out to me. The smiles she gave me which still continue to light my heart today. In fact, even as night falls, there are still things I wish to tell her, but I'm sad that I'm running out of time. I pretend to lock those sentiments in my heart to bestow upon her later—that night as I fall asleep.

My heart refreshed, my burdens lifted, I stand, my knees and legs barely willing to carry me home, and I continue to smile. Just as she's always wanted me to. After all, being there with her again brought out my best smile. All thoughts of her always do. Gently, I put my fingers to my lips and then transfer the kiss to the grass where she once stood.

"I love you." I whisper, the undertone of my words the music of my heart. "It's always nice to visit you, my sweet."

It sounds silly to say something like "See you again," or "Have fun the rest of today, all right?" or even "Smile for me, cutie," because I know she's always doing all of these things—in every whisper, every thought of my heart, every sweet sentiment, every blessing. And so, I merely smile and nod before making my leave once again to home. Dear Paris. I'll leave a lily for you there, too, my love. For you will always be close to my heart—close to home.

The walk is nice and quiet. Contemplative. The stars are full like a garden in bloom, and the moon guides my path. With the horizon in sight, I find myself reaching for it as I walk along—to what lies beyond as well as behind me. I wonder always just what awaits me? Especially now, during this time of simplistic days and beautiful moments. Either way, I know you will be there beside me no matter what may come, my dear. You won't let me go down without a fight—whether it is something bad or something good. And, in the end, we will both stand beside each other with smiles on our faces and stars in our eyes.

Back at my home in Paris, it's good to take a while to relax again. Just to be by myself, relaxing, wondering what to make for dinner. With a sigh, I relax in the chair, my eyes wandering to the journal across from me. Of course. The journal. All my memories, good and bad, now imbued.

It's strange. Through all these days, I've always seen her story as sad. Seen it only as the ending, but—in writing this book and revisiting those days—I realize now that's never what it was. That it's much more than that. Good as well as bad. And it was never the end—but a continuation. As her spirit still shines and her smile still finds me from the sky. And so it's always been. I don't need to regret my actions or to forget the pain or to move on or repent. She's always been here—they could never take her soul. The good memories we shared. Her power and inspiration.

Maybe—I see now—that's why she told me to smile then. Because she was fulfilling her will—transcending to be my guardian angel, where she'll continue to protect me. The patron saint of France. That her sacrifice and courage would never be forgotten. Immortalized. That she'd—as she said—remain. Always. Intrinsic even in memory.

So I should smile, now and every day, for she'd love to see me happy. And I am happy, knowing that we'll always be side-by-side, still and forever, just as we had then, walking together until the bitter end.

333


End file.
